A Voice in the Dark
by lexie2
Summary: Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. Alternative version of Series 7.
1. Prologue & Chapter I

**TITLE: **A Voice in the Dark

**AUTHOR**: Lexie aka lillianschild

**FANDOM: **Spooks/MI5

**RATING: **PG13/R (probably in later chapters)

**PAIRING:** Lucas/OC

**SUMMARY: **Section D has a traitor in their midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.

**A/N:** this fic is my own version of Series 7. I will probably update it once a month, considering my busy work schedule, and try to pen a one-shot in between to continue my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series.

**PROLOGUE**

_DECEMBER 2000_

A thick blanket of snow covered the pavement under the headlights of the black AUDI; their glow the only sliver of light in the pitch-black suburban street.

The chauffeur pulled up next to an abandoned warehouse, put on his fur-lined leather gloves and stepped out into the harsh winter night, looking for some makeshift shelter to give the occupants of the car a few minutes of privacy.

No word had passed between the two men sitting in the back seat since leaving the underground garage of Thames House but now that silence had to be broken.

"I know this isn't the best time for you to be away from home. I can assign another officer. You needn't worry about an unfavourable report to blemish your impeccable record."

"I don't want any preferential treatment. Someone has to do this and you know I'm the best equipped for this mission," replied the younger man with a slow smile.

"You're aware that if you get caught..."

"You don't have to spell it out, Harry. I'm familiar with the phrase _total deniability_."

"I wish there were some other way to find the mole in our ranks and the puppeteer in the shadows. I don't feel comfortable gambling with the life of one of my officers."

"I knew the responsibilities I took upon myself when I entered the service. This is what we do every day. I'm glad the rest of Section D can't hear you or else they'd think you're going soft," chuckled the lanky senior officer. "You don't need to worry about me, Harry. That's something a father might do, and I've already got one..."

"I'll see that he lacks nothing if this doesn't turn out the way we expect. I give you my word."

" There's one more thing..."

"Name it."

"If I don't come back... or if... anything were to happen to me... don't tell my wife the truth about who I was. Tell her to go on with her life. She deserves to be happy and raise the family she's always wanted."

"That family can be yours too. Just come back alive."

"I've deluded myself thinking I could have what others do, a normal life separate from all the lies. But you know better than me there's rarely a happy ending for people like you and I."

"That doesn't mean we'll ever outgrow the need of someone to care for us."

A brief uncomfortable silence fell upon them.

"It's time, Harry. My plane leaves in less than two hours."

"Yes, it's time," the older man said finally, rolling down the window to summon the chauffeur and seal the fate of his most trusted officer.

**CHAPTER I**

_NOVEMBER 2008_

"Shut it down and bring your coat," said Adam Carter's voice, breaking through Annabelle Reed's concentration on the dossier displayed on her screen. "Harry's asked for you. It appears your particular expertise is required."

"Do you know what it is about?" she asked the chief of Section D as she closed the file and gathered her things.

"No, I only have orders for us to meet him at the helipad. I expect he'll brief us on the way."

The ride to the rooftop was done in complete silence, but Annabelle couldn't dispel the feeling that Adam knew more than he'd told her or, at the very least, there was something which had put him on edge.

The moment she pushed the door open and they stepped out on the roof the icy wind took her breath away. Adam led the way and she followed him, burrowing into her coat, never looking up in order to protect herself from the biting cold.

The interior of the helicopter wasn't much warmer but, at least, it shielded them from the lashing wind. And the fact that Sir Harry Pearce was coming along for the ride comforted her somehow. The Head of Section D rarely worked as an in-field agent these days, so the chances of this mission ending up in a shooting or with one of them dead tonight were definitely slimmer. She loved her job but, at the end of the day, she appreciated being able to come back home, pour herself a frothy mug of cocoa and sit down with a good book.

Pearce shouted some instructions to the pilot which she didn't catch. However, one quick glance at Adam's profile told her whatever their superior's words had been, they'd taken the matinée-idol-looking agent by surprise.

They arrived at their destination less than half an hour later, landing on the back lawn of a secluded eighteenth-century Hall.

"That didn't take long," she told Carter on crossing the lawn, a clear questioning tone in her voice. "We could have taken a pool car."

"Just making sure we weren't being followed."

"I assumed that much. What is this place? I've never seen an MI5 safe house that looked anything like this."

"Borrowed for the occasion. An old friend of Harry's on holiday in Barbados."

The house was eerily quiet as they followed Harry into a spacious room which turned out to be a library lined from floor to ceiling with books. There was not a window in sight. Clearly, the head of MI5's Counter-terrorism Department wanted to make sure their presence was kept a secret.

"Please, take a seat," Sir Harry invited them, walking to the bar and removing the stopper from a decanter of Scotch. "Shall I pour you a tumbler?"

"Two fingers," said Adam.

"Not for me, Harry. Thanks," added Annabelle, taking off her coat and stuffing her gloves in a pocket.

"Good. I need you clear-headed for the difficult task ahead. I'm afraid you won't be going home tonight."

"That's OK. There's no pet waiting for my return," she smiled wryly.

Harry allowed himself a pause to study the beautiful woman before him. Whereas Ros Myers had been all sharp angles, dry humour and icy façade, Annabelle was delicate features, diplomacy and warmth; an amazing mix rare in a first-rate officer serving in an organization populated by cold-blooded bastards such as him.

"A little over seven years ago we identified and eradicated a mole within MI5. This was before your time, of course, but you must have heard about it. Well, it appears we messed up and someone's paid a high price for our mistake. That mole was just the top of the iceberg. There was a sleeper in our ranks and he or she seems to have been activated."

"Are there any leads?" interrupted Adam, setting down the half-empty tumbler on a side table.

"No. That's the reason you're here tonight. Last Friday I was contacted by the new FSB head of operations in London. He offered to hand us over an asset in exchange for a Russian spy we had in our trade was sanctioned by the Home Secretary as a sign of good will on the part of our government. Unfortunately, the meeting didn't go as planned. "

It was evident Sir Harry hated being fallible. The grim expression on his face which accompanied the clenched fists he plunged into the pockets of his overcoat spoke of how hard it was for him to acknowledge such a fact.

"The FSB men arrived at the rendezvous point earlier. They ambushed us, killed my chauffeur, sent a senior officer to hospital, put a bullet in my right arm and drove away with our former prisoner."

"And what about our asset? Did they hand him over?"

"Oh, yes," he replied tightly, swallowing down the rest of his drink in one big gulp. "They turned him over after torturing him and beating him within an inch of his life. There's no doubt they left him for dead at the pick-up point. That's when I knew the operation we thought to have dismantled was still very much alive. Whatever information our asset has they clearly didn't want us to find out."

"But why didn't they put a bullet in his head then? Why run the risk of us getting him alive?"

"They needed him for the exchange. They knew he was a big card to play to ensure the trade. They didn't count on him surviving this long. We haven't got much time left... He's going to die, but he seems to be determined to make his death worthwhile and that's why you're here Annabelle."

"I don't understand."

"You're here to debrief him."

"What?" she gasped. "You mean he's here? Shouldn't he be getting medical attention?"

"There's a doctor seeing to him right now, trying to make him as comfortable as possible and ensuring he hangs on until you can take it all down. It's what he wants, and I'll give it to him."

"But why me?" she asked incredulously.

"You're the only Section D member who's fluent in Russian."

"Russian?"

"Yes. He can't speak English. Or, at least, he can't seem to remember what it sounds like in his mouth. We need that information, Annabelle, and it's locked in his mind. He's got photographic memory, the most outstanding I've ever seen in my life. He memorised the information in Russian so it must be easier for him to deliver it in the same language. You're the best we have and I trust you, and there aren't a lot of people in the Section I trust 100% right now."

The double doors to the library opened after a cursory knock and a sober-looking man with a stethoscope in his left hand walked in.

"Is he ready?" asked Pearce meeting the grey-haired man's eyes.

"As ready as he'll ever be. No amount of local anaesthetics is going to make any real difference considering the circumstances. I'm not at all comfortable with this. I hope his agony's worth it, Sir Harry."

"Thank you, doctor. Please, stand by. Annabelle..."

"Where is he?" she asked the medicine man as she stood up on slightly wobbly legs.

"Follow me. He's in a room at the end of the corridor on the first floor," replied the doctor, opening the door for her to walk out of the library.

Annabelle grabbed the laptop she'd brought along and made her way to the grand staircase already dreading the delicate task she'd been assigned.

"His throat has sustained some trauma so don't expect him to use more than a whisper to communicate. He's also asked to keep the lights off. I hope you won't mind, but he insisted when he found out he was going to be debriefed by a woman."

"It's all right," she replied quietly. "I can manage with the light from the screen. Will you stay in the room?"

"Apparently, I haven't got enough clearance to witness the interview. I'll be outside if you need me," he told Annabelle, squeezing her arm gently as a gesture of understanding.

It was nice to feel she wasn't actually alone to cope with the distress she was experiencing now that she was a step away from doing what she would do, what she knew had to be done to protect the lives and the integrity of the service; help to sacrifice a life to save hundreds. To ease her conscience somehow, she prayed the end really justified the means on this particular occasion.

She turned the knob of the bedroom door and, taking a deep breath to muster the necessary courage, walked in. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust and be able to see the exquisite roll-top desk near the bed, whose occupant she barely made out as a mound in the dark since the dimmed light from the corridor only illuminated enough for her not to bump into any furniture.

Approaching the desk she set down her laptop and prepped everything for the debriefing, trying to lock away any qualms she might have in one of the dozen compartments which had helped her keep sane in a crazy world such as hers.

"I'm ready when you are," she said softly in Russian to the voice in the dark, for that was what he should be to her, just a voice.

The voice that answered was low and raspy as if it'd grown hoarse from screaming and, although it wasn't louder than a whisper, it stirred her in a mysterious way, one which went beyond sympathy and that made her loathe herself. This was a dying man who had gone through unknown horrors and was going through hell even now, hanging onto life out of sheer determination to give them the intelligence they wanted. She was a professional and he deserved better from her.

Keeping up with the flow of information was a real struggle. It amazed her how much he'd been able to memorise and how detailed his account was. No wonder the Russians wanted him dead.

"I'm sorry," she apologised softly, not knowing if she was referring to the sudden numbness that had seized her fast-typing fingers or to the images her mind's eye had conjured up, knowing how given to electric shock and waterboarding the Russians were to have prisoners break. "I'm sorry," she repeated louder after clearing her throat, "I've lagged behind. Would you mind if I went over the last thing I registered?"

"Of course not... Got carried away. I'll slow down... My mouth's parched... anyway... May I have … a glass of... water, please?" he replied, making use of impeccable manners.

Annabelle couldn't help but admire the man for his ability to behave in a gentlemanly and civilised way in such unfair and cruel circumstances.

"It was thoughtless of me not to have brought a jug when I came in. I'll ask the doctor if you can have some now..." she told him, getting up from the chair and walking to the door.

"Let him drink as much as he wants and call me if there's anything else I might do," the doctor instructed her once he'd seen to his patient's needs.

No sooner had the door clicked shut than the debriefing began again. Only this time she could feel him watching her as she transcribed his words, a different nuance attached to his voice.

The urge to unglue her eyes from the screen and catch a glimpse of the man wrapped in shadows and lying prone on the bed was turning hard to resist. She accepted the futility of pretending he could be just a disembodied voice in the dark to her; he was already too real.

"I need... a moment," he gasped, clearly fighting against pain.

"Do you want me to...?"

"No, it's OK. Just... give me a moment... and we'll resume."

Annabelle tried to uncoil her tensed muscles surreptitiously but nothing seemed to escape his notice.

"Why don't you... take a short break too? You could use it," he added hoarsely.

Hearing the concern for her in his voice only succeeded at making the lump in her throat bigger and the burning in her eyes more pronounced. She could feel the tears start to well up in her eyes. She had to pull a Rosalynd Myers out of the bag or disgrace the spy race by showing she was just human. She was expected to behave in a professional and detached way, to be a cold-blooded automaton in a masculine world.

Something told her the man in the shadows would understand, that he would experience what she was if their roles were to be reversed. And yet, it wouldn't do to let him see her so rattled or read on her face how much it pained her to witness his agony; it took a lot of courage to survive what he had without breaking and to be here tonight in this room. She owed it to him to face the end... _his_ end... with integrity.

Swallowing the large lump in her throat, she focused on the transcript, feeling his eyes trained on her face once again.

"I'm ready when you are," she said in a voice which sounded shaky to her own ears.

"Will you tell me your name?" he asked her softly after a brief pause.

Revealing her real identity to anyone outside The Grid went against everything she'd been taught during training. Her name was the only thing which was hers, the one thing that showed she existed outside the walls of Thames House, the one part of hers which felt real.

What difference would it make now to hold onto the rules? Anonymity might be an armour, but this man had bared himself to her, a complete stranger, in ways which went beyond sharing a name. It felt only natural to do this little something for him.

"Annabelle."

"Annabelle._ Gracious beauty_. It was many... and many a year ago... In a kingdom by the sea... That a maiden there lived... whom you may know... By the name of Annabel Lee … "

"_And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me," _she finished in her mind.

"I'm ready now. We're almost... done."

Annabelle didn't know how long it went on but, amidst broken inhalations and even a fainting spell which required the doctor's intervention, they managed to wrap things up.

"Thank you... Annabelle," he said in the end, his voice barely audible.

What was one supposed to say now? Were there any words that could provide real comfort to someone who knew would in all probability be dead before the night was through? Somehow she knew nothing she might say would be appropriate.

She started to pack up her equipment and thanked the blessed darkness that enveloped them now that the laptop had been put away because she could pretend she was no longer at a disadvantage.

He could slip into the final release now, one that she found herself hoping it'd arrive soon to deliver him.

Using the thread of light which filtered under the door she found her way to the exit only to stop with her hand on the knob. Setting her things down, she retraced her steps to where the man she felt joined to by some invisible force was lying.

Her fingers shook as she stretched her arms and unclasped the golden chain with the crucifix that she wore round her neck. And then, with extreme care as if the slightest noise could shatter the comforting silence, she left it on the night table and walked away.

Sir Harry Pearce and Adam Carter were still in the library when she got to the ground floor.

"Did you get it all? Is it as valuable as we thought?" were Harry's first questions as he handed her a tumbler of Scotch.

God! She'd never thought she'd ever hate her boss and mentor the way she did now

"I know how difficult it must have been," he added to fill in the pregnant silence.

"Do you?" she glared at the Head of Section D. "You'll find everything you need in this pendrive," she told Adam, handing him the memory stick.

"Take tomorrow off, Annabelle. Adam, would you mind seeing her home?"

"Of course not, Harry. Shall we?"

"I'm sorry, Annabelle," said Harry as both senior officers reached the French windows opening onto the grounds.

"It's not me you should apologise to."

Once the helicopter had taken off and she cast one last glance at the Hall, she felt the tears fall unchecked down her cheeks. A brave man would die tonight and he deserved to be grieved. There would be time to wear her mask of control again, for now she would allow herself to be human again.

**A/N 2: **The excerpt of poetry quoted by Lucas belongs to Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee" .


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: **I know I said I'd probably update this once a month, but I'm already working on a new instalment of my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series- and this was ready so I decided to post it now.

By the way, as I told a couple of readers, this is a LUCAS fic; meaning he's NOT a footnote. In short, not everything is what it seems. Enough said. Enjoy!

**TITLE: **A Voice in the Dark

**AUTHOR**: Lexie aka lillianschild

**FANDOM: **Spooks/MI5

**RATING: **PG13/R (probably in later chapters)

**PAIRING:** Lucas/OC

**SUMMARY: **Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.

**DISCLAIMER: **all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

**A/N: **this fic is my own version of Series 7.

**CHAPTER II**

Two days after the debriefing, Annabelle was back on The Grid taking part in a meeting convened by the Head of Section D; only a small group was present, those she assumed were amongst Harry's most trusted.

"How and where exactly did this asset get the intel?" asked Edwards, the oldest senior officer in the room. "This kind of information couldn't have been stored just in one location."

"Maybe he got it from different sources and then mentally assembled it," Annabelle suggested. She was the only person in the room who was aware of the asset's prodigious mind at work, but nobody except Harry and Adam knew of her role in the exchange of information. Pearce had asked both officers to keep things under wraps, and she'd follow his order to the letter.

The meeting broke up half an hour later and she stayed behind, waiting patiently for the rest of the group to leave so that she could have a word with Harry in private.

"I've told you everything I know, Annabelle."

"I'm not asking you to tell me who he was. I just want to know if... He was kind to me," she swallowed the lump which was lodged in her throat. "That night... did he...?"

"Shortly after you left. The end wasn't painful; that much I can promise you. The doctor made sure he got enough morphine to numb the pain. There wasn't much else he could do... the damage was too great. I'm aware this might sound callous, Annabelle, but it was for the best. I would have welcomed my deliverance had I been in his shoes," he replied after a brief pause.

Wasn't that what she'd actually prayed for on leaving his bedroom- that he could be delivered of his agony and find rest at last? It was the most humane thing to wish for a man who was suffering the way he had.

Still, there was something about the way Sir Harry had recited the events which didn't ring true. She couldn't put her finger on it, but a feeling in her gut told her that not everything her superior and mentor had shared was the truth. Could it be he'd encouraged the doctor to speed up the patient´s deliverance? And if that were the case, would she blame him?

"Thanks for answering my question," she said quietly, getting up and grabbing her notes to return to her station.

He was dead and life went on. New threats put the nation on the rack every day and it was up to them to ensure the world was a safer place. New names were added to the Memorial Wall at Thames House on a regular basis, unknown to the world, anonymous like the voice in the dark which still rang in her ears.

Although she doubted she'd ever forget, there was a lot going on and she needed to keep focused; too much depended on it.

_MAY 2009_

"Adam Carter's disappeared," Edwards informed her one morning when she was pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee.

"What?" she exclaimed, spilling part of the hot beverage and burning her hand in the process.

"Careful," he said with a frown, grabbing the mug for her to wipe her desk with some tissues. "You should put some butter on that."

"I'll survive. What's that about Adam disappearing? I thought he was on leave to spend some time with Wes and his in-laws."

"Apparently he never made it. His father-in-law got in touch with Harry and the Boss sent Jo and Ben to his flat. It appears the entry had been forced. Adam wasn't there but... they found his blood on the scene."

"My God," she gasped, plopping down in her swivel chair.

She sat stunned for a few moments trying to get her bearings again and then knocked at Harry's door before entering his office.

"You've heard?" he asked on seeing her blanched face.

"Is it true? Is he dead?"

"We don't know yet. At first glance everything looked fine when Jo and Ben searched the flat. That is until they noticed some blood spots on the kitchen floor, a few cabinet doors open and a missing carving knife. According to our forensic team, there were definite signs of struggle and the blood found matches Adam's record."

"What about his car? He was supposed to pick Wes up and drive to Surrey to spend the weekend with his parents-in-law."

"Still in the garage."

"Was he working on something new?"

"No, nothing you don't know of."

"Then... do you think... I know it might sound crazy... Do you think it could be connected with what happened that night?"

"We caught the FSB sleeper six months ago, Annabelle. "

"And what if Connie and the spy you caught almost eight years ago weren't the only members of Tiresias in our midst? What if he or she is still working from within and trying to find out how much we know?"

"Let's not jump to conclusions. Paranoia can be a double-edged weapon."

Adam's beheaded corpse was found by some poachers a week later and it wouldn't be the last. A fortnight later Dr Delaney turned up strangled to death in his own garage.

Annabelle didn't believe in coincidences. Even though the rest of Section D would never see the connection between both murders, she had no doubt Sir Harry would. Someone was hunting down whoever had been in touch with the man that had provided them with a well of information.

"I'll buy you a drink," offered Edwards, the newly-assigned Chief of Section D.

"Thank you but this report should be on Harry's desk first thing in the morning."

"Rain check?"

"Sure," she smiled, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee.

"Goodnight then"

"Night," she mumbled, focusing on her monitor once again.

Thames House was virtually deserted by the time she finished typing the report and putting together the dossier her boss had requested. However, there was another person who had decided to burn out the candle at both ends just like her, Sir Harry Pearce himself.

Annabelle shut down the computer and, tidying up her station, knocked softly at his door.

"Come in, " he said after a brief hesitation. "I didn't expect you to be still here."

"I just wanted to finish this before tomorrow," she replied, leaving the blue dossier on his desk. "I've gathered all the information you requested."

"Thanks. I'll have a look at it straight away."

"It isn't anything that can't wait until tomorrow, is it? You look drained, Harry. It's been a trying week. You should listen to your own advice sometimes."

"Duly noted, Miss Reed," he smiled, taking a sip of his Scotch and opening the dossier in front of him.

"See you in the morning, Harry."

"Annabelle," he said softly and she turned around at the door. "Take care. We still might not know what's going on, but I don't want to lose another officer. Be extra careful."

She nodded and let herself out, leaving Harry with his tumbler and his favourite opera sounding in the background.

Unbeknownst to Harry and the rest of the team, she'd moved out of her flat following Dr Delaney's death and checked in at a bed & breakfast in the suburbs. In addition, she now took extra precautions such as taking a different route or a shortcut through a crowded shop every morning, changing taxis several times, covering her mahogany brown hair with a kerchief or a hat and leaving The Grid on time so as to blend with the rest of the employees- a rule she'd broken only tonight.

Nothing out of the ordinary had happened over the last two weeks and all the cloak-and-dagger routine was wearing her patience thin. She missed her flat, her books and her plants- she'd only taken her favourite fern with her afraid it wouldn't survive her desertion. And she was also getting tired of rotating the same wardrobe; she wasn't a fashion addict, but it wouldn't take long for her observant colleagues and boss to notice something was amiss.

One evening, after a quiet dinner in a cosy family restaurant just around the corner of her temporary lodgings, she returned to her flat, sticking to her spy routine to make sure she wasn't being followed.

* * *

The mobile phone vibrated on the coffee-table, stirring awake the lonely occupant of the dimly-lit living-room as he lay outstretched on the comfortable sofa. The elegant, long-fingered hand reached for the phone and picked up the call.

"The pigeon's just landed," said Tom's voice, breaking the silence. "Shall I follow through with the original plan or have you changed your mind?"

"No, do it," he replied calmly, disconnecting the phone and massaging his neck in an attempt to ease the knotted muscles.

A sudden feeling of anticipation seized him, and he had to remind himself that, despite the confusing emotions the call had stirred, this was nothing but business.

Taking a deep breath to calm his erratic heartbeat, he walked into the kitchen, plugged in the coffeemaker and resigned himself to wait.

* * *

The plants she'd set in the kitchen sink were withered but still alive, so she plucked a few yellowish leaves, fixed the compost and talked to them for a little while.

Nothing seemed to have been disturbed during her absence; the usual spy tricks to make sure nobody had tampered with her drawers, cupboards and desk remained in place.

She'd wait until the month was over and, if nothing out of the ordinary happened, move back in. It'd be foolish to deplete her savings and live on a shoestring in order to afford a room in a bed & and breakfast, meals in a restaurant every other day and transport fares to get to work six days a week.

Unzipping the bag she'd left on her bed, she packed up lingerie, a few trouser suits and even some leisure clothes just in case. Then she added some toiletries and make-up and did it up.

A quarter of an hour later, having ascertained through the peephole nobody was lurking outside, she turned off the lights and stepped out into the corridor carrying her bag in one hand. Looking up and down, she closed the door and- fumbling with her keys- proceeded to lock it. It was at that moment she felt a hand grab her elbow and a wave of panic overcame her, making her delayed reaction useless, for no sooner had she pulled out her gun and started to turn around than a fist connected with her chin and knocked her unconscious.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER III**

When she came round it was to find herself lying in what she assumed was a very comfortable sofa since, although her hands were tied and a blindfold prevented her from seeing her surroundings, the lack of movement and the ample leg room meant she wasn't in the back seat or the boot of a car.

Her jaw hurt and she was still a little dizzy after breathing in a moderate amount of chloroform. It was clear that whoever had seized her from her flat had wanted to make sure she wouldn't try to escape or loosen her blindfold and see enough to know where they were heading.

So far she didn't have an inkling of her whereabouts, only the nagging feeling that the Russians were somehow involved in her kidnapping, that or she'd been dreaming with the voice in the dark once again.

"Miss Reed?" asked a slightly accented velvety baritone she located immediately behind the sofa.

Her head was pulsing and that voice with its modulated deep tone didn't help clear her already confused thoughts. Politeness wasn't what she'd have ever expected from a kidnapper.

"I.." she began answering in a voice which sounded raspy and alien to her own ears. "I don't know what it is you want with me," she added after swallowing to ease the dryness of her throat, "but this has to be some kind of mistake."

"You're Annabelle Reed, are you not?" he stated matter-of-factly.

"As I told you before, you've got the wrong person," she insisted, struggling against the pounding in her head and the barely disguised tremor in her voice.

"We aren't amateurs, Annabelle. We don't make mistakes. We've been waiting a long time for you to come back home."

"We? Look, I don't know what you think I have that could interest you. I'm just a boring thirty-something with a nine-to-five job which doesn't pay that well. I don't understand what would make you hit and tie up somebody like me, unless you got a kick out of kidnapping defenceless women to have your way with them."

"I apologise for any manhandling. You took my partner by surprise; he had orders to bring you here unharmed, but I wouldn't describe you as a regular damsel in distress. And I'm not a rapist or some twisted psychopath who enjoys hurting women. You're here only to talk."

"There are more civilised ways to approach a woman for a conversation than having her kidnapped and restrained."

"I just want to ask you some questions, Miss Reed," he told her in a soft and pleasant tone which did odd things to her stomach.

She needed to take a painkiller; maybe then she'd be able to identify what it was about this man that tickled her consciousness. He had had her kidnapped and yet, there was no trace of threat in his voice. Annabelle didn't know what to make of that. If anything, it made her more jittery since that might mean he was unpredictable.

The rumours she'd heard of what had been done to Adam before his death came unbidden to her mind and so did her memory of the agonised whispers which still haunted her in the dark. Would she be able to put up with the level of pain both men had suffered without breaking? She doubted it; it was just a question of how long she'd last before giving in. That was one of the reasons she'd worked mostly on The Grid; being a full-time field officer demanded a power of resilience her sensitive nature would probably never have.

"Whatever it is you've got planned for me, just do it. But you won't get anything from me because there's nothing to tell," she replied, hiding how scared she was behind a mask of defiance.

"You've got nothing to fear. As I said before, I had you brought here only to talk. I've no intention of inflicting any bodily harm on you," said he in his chocolatey voice.

"Please, don't insult my intelligence," she told him in a scathing tone.

"There are more subtle ways to get the answers I'm looking for than resorting to torture."

"Drugs? I really don't see the difference; they're just another form of violation in disguise."

"Believe me, there's a difference. Pray to God you'll never get to experience it."

There was a fair chance he was playing with her and yet, she could feel relief wash over her. She'd perceived something in his voice, something indefinable which told her he wouldn't hurt her. Maybe she was clutching at straws because she was scared witless.

"Why don't I tell you a story? You don't have to do anything but listen and assent if I've got the details right," he suggested after a slight pause.

Her captor's faint accent did nothing but add an appealling extra quality to his beautifully rich voice. Annabelle couldn't help but remember all those training lectures about kidnapping victims and the Stockholm Syndrome. Could it be she was endowing her captor with attributes that weren't actually there?

"Six months ago your people carried out an internal hush-hush operation which ended up with a senior field officer behind bars for treason. Her name was Connie James. The intel that was used to identify her as a mole was provided by a man your agency traded for an FSB asset. Sir Harry Pearce, the Head of Section D, set up a meeting to debrief the source after the pick-up turned into a bloodshed with several officers out of commission, including Arkady Kachimov- the new FSB head of operations in London. Somebody sold your source out, someone within MI5, and Harry Pearce's the only secret service officer to have survived the armed confrontation virtually unscathed."

A long silence stretched out between them as she assimilated everything her captor had said. She didn't need this man to spell it out more clearly; he believed Harry Pearce was somehow guilty of what had happened to the man in the dark. She had suspected there were things her superior hadn't shared with either Adam or her, but the idea of Harry as a double agent responsible for their asset's torture and subsequent death was too painful to consider.

"Do you remember that operation?" he asked quietly.

"I'm a linguist. Languages are my area of expertise. I don't know anything about secret operations."

"You, Sir Harry Pearce, Adam Carter and Dr Delaney were airborne to an eighteenth-century castle half an hour away from London, where your agonising asset was debriefed, and you were the officer in charge of the interview. You personally typed everything he had to say into your laptop. Do you now remember that night, Miss Reed?"

How could she ever forget? She was still haunted by the memory of being enveloped by darkness, with only the glow of the screen to register every word whispered by the dying man whose death she'd grieved deeply, despite their brief acquaintance.

"Annabelle, do you remember that man? Can you tell me his name?"

The question was unexpected and made the purpose of her kidnapping even more confusing. The Russians knew the identity of the man; they'd handed him over after torturing and beating him up within an inch of his life. Why would he ask her to give him a name he already had?

"I told you I don't know what you're talking about."

"All I want is a name."

"I can't give you what I don't have," she insisted.

A blanket of silence fell over the room, disturbed only by a weary sigh and the rustle of clothing as he shifted his body in the seat across from her.

"Two agents are dead; six,counting the ones that were shot at the rendezvous point. Half the team that was at the castle with you and Pearce is deceased," he went on to explain, leaning forward and teasing her senses with the subtle but utterly masculine aroma of his aftershave. "Adam Carter, Dr Delaney... Are you ready to be the next?"

The question sent a chill down her spine, making her swallow nervously. She wasn't Ros Myers; her colleague would have never let him read the fear written on her face.

"You questioned both of them and you still have no answer?"

"They didn't have it. That leaves you... and..."

"Well, as I've told you countless times, I don't have the information you want."

"... Sir Harry Pearce," he finished. "Maybe he's the only one who knows the name," he added, giving voice to the thought that had been circling her mind. She was the one who'd been closest to their asset and yet she'd never known his name; she hadn't even asked it. For a fleeting moment she'd felt tempted to because if there was one thing she hated about their job was that so many gave their lives, left grieving families behind and ended up in an obscure dossier or as a carved name on a cold concealed wall; unsung heroes who only lived in the memory of a select few until their time came too. And yet, she was now glad Harry hadn't shared the man's name with her since she'd hate to be the one responsible for desecrating his memory when her captor broke her; for break her he would.

"You keep mentioning this Sir something or other, but I don't know what it is you're talking about."

"Annabelle..." he began in a silky voice that she was sure would manage to charm even the coldest-blooded member of her gender.

"Stop using my first name! Nobody's given you the right!" she hissed. No one outside The Grid called her by her Christian name, no one ever had... until that night in the dark when she'd broken her golden rule. And hearing it on her captor's lips hurt her in some unfathomable way; it reminded her of long-forgotten dreams of a normal life she knew she'd never have. All she could hope for now was a few stolen moments when she could pretend she was the kind that didn't care for forever.

"Miss Reed, someone knows his name. I just want to know who."

"Why?" she finally exploded, telling herself it was useless to keep denying any involvement when he clearly knew more about the people who'd taken part in the operation than she ever had. Maybe she could get some answers at last. "Why do you want to know his name? He's dead."

"Is that what Harry Pearce told you?" he asked in an even tone which betrayed nothing. "And you believed him?"

"What are you hinting at? Of course I believed him. I was there, as you very well know. There was no need for lies. The man was dying in front of my eyes... "

"Who's to say he didn't live longer? Were you there when he passed away?"

"There's no way..," she swallowed painfully. "He'd been tortured and brutally beaten..."

"I know..." he said quietly.

"Harry told me the man died that night," she repeated in as controlled a voice as she could muster. She'd had her own doubts about how much of the truth her superior had told her, but she wasn't going to share her lingering uncertainties with this man, no matter how pleasantly seductive his voice was. Everyone close to their dead informant and the rest of her own team would be at risk.

"You're an intelligent woman, Ann... _Miss Reed_. Lying is part and parcel of who Sir Harry Pearce is. It goes with the territory. "

Of course she knew that. She wasn't that naïve. Knowing how to lie was a necessary asset in their world and was one she'd struggled to master after joining MI5 following a collaboration with Section D four years ago. Although she'd had a lot of scruples when the offer to join was presented to her, her mother's mounting hospital bills and expensive treatments tipped the scales. MI5 offered her a better pay and health insurance than her job as a university lecturer so, eventually, she decided it would be foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth and took up the offer.

"Why is it so important for you to find out who knew his name?" she asked the man she suspected had ordered or taken part in their asset's demise.

"Have you ever stopped to think how and where your source got the information he provided you with?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do. You just don't want to see the truth..." he suggested quietly.

"And what's the truth? Enlighten me," she told him bitterly, struggling to sit up and hating herself for her weakness, for discussing details of a secret op with the enemy, for letting his calm and beautiful voice seduce her.

"You're exhausted. Let's leave it till tomorrow," he replied softly as if he really cared about her well-being. "Come," he added, getting up and grabbing her elbow to help her straighten up.

"Don't touch me!" she shook him off. "_I_ can do it," she gritted, taking a few steps until a bout of dizziness seized her and she collapsed.

"Tom!" he shouted, struggling with her dead weight.

"What happened?" asked the 6ft-3in man who barged into the room to find his old friend on the floor holding the faint prisoner in his arms.

"потерял сознание," he replied slightly breathless.

"English, please," Tom cocked an eyebrow and knelt down to relieve him of her weight.

"Sorry... She passed out."

"I can see that. It must be the stress and the lack of food. She didn't touch the tray I brought her."

"Her skin's clammy. She needs to ingest something sugary to boost the glucose in her blood."

"I've restocked the fridge. Why don't you fetch something while I take her upstairs?" suggested Tom at the foot of the stairs.

"Я ненавижу все это, " mumbled the other man, looking at the pale face of the beautiful young woman, whose head lolled against his best friend's shoulder.

"I'm seriously considering taking a crash course in Russian. Does that mean you agree?" frown Tom.

"Be off with you. I'll be up in a moment."

* * *

Я ненавижу все это. 'I hate all this' she'd heard someone mumble in Russian from a long way off before letting go into the darkness.

"Miss Reed... Annabelle."

A whispering voice called her name and she blinked slowly, fighting off the lingering neuralgia in her jaw and the pounding in her head.

"Annabelle."

The voice was real and close. It wasn't a dream. She was no longer wearing a blindfold but darkness surrounded her; for a minute there she was reminded of that black room six months ago.

"Do you remember who the current Prime Minister is?"

"Brown. Gordon Brown," she whispered.

"And do you know what day it is?"

"I don't know how long I've been here. One day? Must be Friday."

"What's your mobile phone number?"

"What? You want a date? I thought we'd established you aren't one to follow the rules. You could have invited me a cup of coffee to have a civilised chat, instead of having your goon knock me out and drag me to your cave."

A rich and pleasant laugh came out of the darkness, taking her by surprise.

"I'm glad to see I was right; you're a beautiful lady but you also have claws. Sir Harry's always had a keen eye when it comes to recruiting his people."

"Who are you?" she demanded, adjusting her eyes in an attempt to make out his shadow in the darkness which enveloped them.

"You hit your head when you fainted. I'm just trying to find out if you have a concussion."

"I'm pretty articulate, wouldn't you say? And you haven't answered my question."

"Who was your informant?"

"For the umpteenth time... I don't know. And he's dead. He's been dead six months. You made him suffer enough. Why don't you let him rest in peace at last? "

No answer came from across the room and yet she could feel his presence and smell his subtle aftershave as beguiling as his softly-spoken voice.

Suddenly lethargic, and strangely relaxed, despite being under her captor's watch, she slowly drifted back to the safe realm of sleep.

"You should know better than to fall for a pretty face. This is looking more and more like an obsession to me, mate," said Tom gravely when his best friend joined him in the living room.

"Half of the team's dead, murdered. And those casualties won't be the last. You know this isn't just about me; I've got others to think of."

"I could hasten the process if you allowed me to do what I suggested in the first place."

"No! No drugs."

"Why not? Is it because you're afraid of the answers you might get? Maybe you don't want to find out the truth after all. I wouldn't blame you if... "

"Are you looking for a fight?" asked the coldly controlled voice.

"No, I just want to make sure you're keeping your eyes on the ball... "

"The money in her account might be evidence, but it's not conclusive proof of her involvement."

"I understand you need a reprieve- God knows you've earned it- but don't let your feelings for this girl, whatever they're are, blind you."

"You didn't hesitate to put a bullet in Harry when he thought you a traitor. Do you believe I'd have qualms to do the same if I discovered he's somehow involved in all this?"

"We aren't talking about Sir Harry Pearce here."

"No, we are talking about what I'm capable of. That should answer your question."

**TBC**

**A/N 2**: I know there are a couple of issues that might be disconcerting for those of you who live in the UK- the mounting hospital bills and her reasons for joining MI5 (mainly her salary). I'll make sure to explain them in coming chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

**TITLE: **A Voice in the Dark

**AUTHOR**: Lexie aka lillianschild

**FANDOM: **Spooks/MI5

**RATING: **PG13/R (probably in later chapters)

**PAIRING:** Lucas/OC

**SUMMARY: **Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.

**Disclaimer**: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

**A/N:** this fic is my own version of Series 7. I will probably update it once a month, considering my busy work schedule, and try to pen a one-shot in between to continue my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series.

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Annabelle woke up with a dull headache, no doubt the result of her hitting her head when she'd fainted the previous night.

As soon as the room stopped spinning she made her way to the bathroom to attend to the urgent needs of nature. Then she struggled to strip down in order to have a shower in the semi-darkness; although there was a lamp on the bedside table, there was no switch in the room and it was up to the people who held her hostage to leave the lights on or off.

She found the quick shower invigorating; she would have killed for an immersion bath with her favourite salts and scented candles, but beggars aren't choosers and she couldn't risk having her captors walk on her naked.

Despite their overall civilised treatment of her, she hadn't expected to find her suitcase when she returned to her room nor did she believe she would be afforded the luxury of spending a few hours sans blindfold and of having even hot running water and perfumed soap to freshen up. Drying herself up quickly she donned a pair of blue jeans, a white t-shirt, a red cardigan and sandals.

Rummaging through her suitcase to choose a clean change of clothes had been a strangely disturbing experience. There was no doubt in her mind they had searched through her things and yet it wasn't the idea of their handling her intimate apparel that unsettled her but, rather, the thought of the man with the chocolatey voice and the subtle aftershave going through her belongings... touching her lingerie. God, what was wrong with her?! She should be sickened not blushing furiously at the images her mind seemed to be determined to conjure up.

Stockholm Syndrome, yes, that's what it was. She would have had the same reaction no matter what her captor had sounded like.

She didn't have to wait long for the lights to go off again and the key to turn in the lock. The room was cast into darkness and yet she recognised the spicy cologne as that of the man who'd seized her outside her flat. Tom. That was his name or, at least, that was what she'd heard the other one call him before she passed out in his arms the night before.

"Is this really necessary?" she asked her kidnapper when he approached her with the blindfold ready in his hand.

Ros would have in all certainty made an attempt to neutralise him and run for her life if she'd been in Annabelle's place- after all, the young woman's hands had been untied when he entered the room. Maybe she was a coward, but she found comfort in the thought that her decision had been a sensible one; she didn't know how many there were and, considering the man's height and build, she was clearly at a disadvantage. No, she'd much rather survive the ordeal than leave the place in a bag.

* * *

Annabelle hadn't turned up to work in the last three days and everyone on The Grid was growing restless. Ben and Jo's visit to her flat had yielded no positive results and the bed & breakfast they discovered she'd recently moved into was a dead end. Nobody said it in so many words, but the fear another officer would turn up dead at their doorstep was hanging on their heads like the sword of Damocles.

With Annabelle missing in action, the section was short of a very skilful linguist, and the urgent need for a replacement- hopefully a temporary one- couldn't be ignored. Bringing new people in was a particularly delicate matter when the allegiances within were being questioned; Annabelle's disappearance left no doubt there was someone in their midst who knew Tiresias was under threat, and that someone was beheading the pawns on the board to get to the major prize.

Sir Harry needed someone he could trust implicitly and that someone had unexpectedly resurfaced after an absence of two years. Ruth Evershed, now a widow, was back on British soil and some of the old ghosts he hadn't been able to put to rest started visiting the head of Section D.

"Harry, about Annabelle's replacement..." said his new chief of section on seeing him emerge from his private office.

"I'm going to see to it today. Any news?"

"We've kept trying her mobile with no luck. The battery must have been removed. We can't use the GPS signal."

"OK. Keep me posted. You can reach me on my mobile. Now, I'm off. I have an appointment with my barber before meeting the Home Secretary," Harry smiled wryly, walking towards the pods.

Although the barber and the Rt Hon Nicholas Blake were part of the head of section's agenda for the day, there was an off-the-record visit he'd meant to make on his way back from Ruth's. It was high time he faced two of his most personal failures face-on.

* * *

She'd been led into the room blindfolded, trying to follow Tom's guidance without stumbling over a carpet or bumping into the furniture, hating the sense of helplessness of the whole situation.

Sitting in a comfortable upholstered armchair she heard voices whispering across the room, too low for her to be able to make out what they were saying but fast-paced enough to surmise something had happened, something which had shaken the unflappable man of the chocolatey voice, judging by the anger in his tone and his reverting to Russian. No, she couldn't understand what they were discussing but the Slavic expletives she overheard were unmistakable.

No sooner had the voices stopped than she felt knuckles softly graze her cheek. Goose pimples covered her skin and, for the first time since she entered the warm room, she appreciated wearing the cardigan to conceal her betraying body.

"Don't," she said aloud, flinching away when the long-fingered hand she recognised as _his_ made to tuck a few stray hairs behind her ear.

"I'm sorry about the blindfold," he replied with polite civility, "but it's for the best."

"Who are you?" she asked unable to hide how puzzled she was at his treatment of her. Even now, when she expected him to resort to some sort of violence after overhearing his angry exchange with Tom, he was disconcertingly gallant.

"The less you know the better, Miss Reed."

"I'm not stupid. I don't know what game you're playing or how naïve you think I am.."

"This is not a game. There's too much at risk to be so cavalier. And no, you're hardly stupid..."

"If this isn't a game, stop pretending you're someone other than you are."

"And what makes you think this isn't me? A name doesn't make us who we are, Annabelle."

"You had your goon knock me out, chloroform me and drag me here to be held against my will. I think that's more than revealing, don't you?"

"I'm sorry for the punch. It wasn't part of my instructions. I've been told you haven't taken any of the painkillers with your meals."

"As if I would be so foolish. At least, if you're going to drug me, I'll have the consolation of knowing I put up a fight."

"I promise you there'll be no drugs. Just tell me what I want to know."

"We can go on like this for days and I still won't tell you a thing, because there's nothing to tell. I don't know anything about the asset, except that he's dead. He's been dead for six months, in a grave somewhere away from your filthy FSB. You can do nothing else to him now. I bet it must be killing you, knowing he won and you lost, and there's not a thing you can do about it," she seethed, wondering how much more of his eerily calm control she could tolerate.

She felt tears welling up in her eyes and thanked the presence of the blindfold because it allowed her a temporary reprieve to get hold of her emotions. He would never see her cry. No, the last man she cried for deserved them, and she wasn't about to desecrate his sacrifice by breaking down now.

* * *

"Gone? What do you mean gone?" exploded the Head of Section D after gaining admittance to the secluded private clinic he hadn't set foot in for the last four months.

"The patient left us a month ago, sir. He..." the doctor in charge of the case began to explain.

"Why wasn't I informed?" glared the veteran secret service agent.

"I thought you knew. Your signature was in the letter."

"What letter?"

"The one in which you informed us that his brother had been contacted and that as his next-of-kin he'd now be the one signing all the isn't a prison, Mr Pearce. The patient had been responding very well to our treatment and, although he still had a couple more weeks of physiotherapy to be ready for release, he was eager to leave. His brother told me the family had hired the services of a professional to see the programme was completed at home. My first priority's always been the welfare of my patient and having the support of family and friends, particularly in a case such as his which was touch-and-go for over a month, is vital to speed up a difficult recovery."

_The support of family and friends_. The man certainly knew how to rub salt into an open wound.

"Well, I don't know who wrote that letter but it certainly wasn't me. You said two people came to pick him up. Could you describe them? Were they foreigners?"

"They were a very attractive couple- a 6'3'' man and a blond woman. She didn't speak so I cannot tell for certain, but _he_ was definitely British."

"Did you notice anything worth-mentioning as regards their interaction with your patient?" frowned Sir Harry.

"All I can say is that the three of them left the building walking and that there was no sign of coercion. Both men hugged on meeting and cracked some jokes; there was no doubt in my mind they were close."

"You have CCTV cameras in the reception area and the corridors..."

* * *

"Did Pearce tell you how the asset had approached MI5?"

"He didn't tell me anything."

"Anything other than it was done through Kachimov, the late head of the FSB in London, that is," he patiently clarified.

"If you say so. Whatever information you're fishing for, I don't know. You appear to have more answers than I actually do. I really don't understand why you're wasting time questioning me."

_Maybe I should have kept that last thought to myself,_ mused Annabelle. There was a fair chance her kidnappers would decide she was a wasted effort in the end, and either dispose of her in much the same way they had the late doctor and Adam or move to less civilised methods of interrogation than having her listen to this beautiful voice in the dark.

"Haven't you ever wondered where and how your informant got all the intel he passed on to you? You had to; it was a wealth of information."

It wasn't the first time he'd asked her that question and it was one which invited speculation since Annabelle was convinced he knew exactly where the information had been gained. What's more, a gut feeling told her he knew a lot more than what she had assumed on debriefing the dying man. Although it'd been enough to hear the asset's raspy voice and perceive the battered and abused body in the dark to imagine the indignities he'd suffered at the hands of the FSB, only God knew when his Calvary had actually begun.

"In this business we're paid to follow orders without asking questions. And that's what I did. It was a case just like any other. I simply typed what he said before he died, handed in my report and that was it. Death is part and parcel of my world; I can't afford to think about all the people who die around me. At the end of the day, what matters is to have done my job well and live to see another day."

"I don't believe for a minute you're either as cold-blooded or cynical as you want to appear, Ms Reed," he denied, leaning forward and brushing her hand lightly when he touched the delicate charm bracelet she was wearing.

Annabelle's stomach lurched for a reason that she knew wasn't fear. His touch was just as pleasant as his strangely caressing voice; a fact she found tremendously unfair considering no one had ever stirred her this way before. Well, nobody except the dying man she couldn't seem to forget; a fact which she found immensely ironical.

"Иисус Навин. St Joshua," he added, holding the charm symbolising the Patron Saint of spies. "Are you a religious person, Annabelle?"

"Are you?"

"You sound surprised. You don't think that someone like me can actually have a soul to save."

"Nobody's beyond redemption."

"Even if that person were FSB?... You've gone quiet all of a sudden. Things aren't as black and white, are they? You want to hold onto your faith and charity but sometimes belief can falter even amongst the most fervent believers. I know what it's like; I've been there... Are you as good as you want the world to think, Miss Reed?"

"That's not for me to say. He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone... . Isn't that what the Good Book says?"

"There's a lot of money to be made in the world of Intelligence, and you're in a very sensitive position. Haven't you ever felt tempted to profit from it?"

"I'd never sell out my friends," she replied with clear accusation in her voice.

"But, you see, we aren't talking about friends here. You'd never met this asset until that night and you spent... what? Three? Four hours with him?"

"I find what you're suggesting truly offensive," she said through gritted teeth.

"You can't blame me for being curious. You gave up a job at university which paid double the salary of a junior officer at MI5... "

Annabelle understood only too well what he was hinting at. Four years ago, when her father- Colonel Charles Reed- had passed away, leaving his only daughter in charge of the welfare of a terminally ill mother, the unexpected offer made by his late comrade-at-arms, Sir Harry Pearce, had sounded too good to be true. And yet, the man had managed to convince her to join in with air-tight arguments; Her Majesty's Service needed her expertise and was willing to pay her extra for the sacrifice of giving up such a coveted tenure.

The young woman had had great qualms about the recruiting; after all, being a spy -even a desk one- was hardly the sedate and safe teaching job she had then. However, her love for her mother and the knowledge that the NHS would never cover the expensive cost of the experimental treatment which might provide her with the cure traditional science had failed to, prompted Annabelle to accept MI5's God-sent proposal.

It had taken her a couple of years to find out the bonus she got every month came straight from Harry Pearce; the offer had allowed the veteran spy to pay off an old debt of gratitude to the late colonel for having saved his life on a mission several years before.

"Your offshore bank account balance is quite impressive. Tell me, Annabelle," he suggested quietly, catching her chin and holding it with his warm, mesmerizing fingers. "Was it you who betrayed the man in the castle?" he asked her in a tone coloured by an indefinable emotion that wasn't anger.

"I've never had an offshore bank account in my life, and I couldn't have done what you're implying. I'd have never betrayed him!" she exploded, lifting her chin from his fingers and pulling away.

"Well, someone did; someone on your team. And whoever did it placed his former wife and her new young family in danger."

Annabelle gulped.

"I had nothing to do with that..."

* * *

Tom Quinn and Christine Dale.

Seeing on the recording his former Chief of Section and the woman for whom Tom had resigned from the Service shouldn't have taken Harry by surprise, especially knowing how close Lucas and Tom had been ever since their university years. However, finding out Quinn had been the one to step in to help Lucas in his greatest moment of need when it should have been him there, made Harry Pearce, the man responsible for Lucas' predicament, ashamed. Yes, Sir Harry Pearce, loathed to admit it, but he hadn't been able to face the young officer who'd sacrificed everything for Queen and country and who'd gone through hell to prove himself in his mentor's eyes once again.

There was no doubt in the head of Section's mind that Quinn's decision not to either erase or seize the CCTV tapes had been a clear attempt to send his former boss a message- that he and Christine had been there for Lucas when everyone had forsaken him.

* * *

"_Well, someone did; someone on your team. And whoever did it placed his former wife and her new young family in danger."_

The words played over and over again in her mind as she lay stretched out on her bed.

Could it be she'd been wrong all along? Could it be these men weren't FSB but something else entirely? What the beguiling voice had asserted didn't sound like something the FSB would have said. After all, if they were Russians spies, wouldn't they have been the ones to go after the asset's family in their effort to locate him and silence him forever?

But if her kidnappers' employer wasn't the former KGB, then who were they working for? And who was the traitor in Section D's midst?


	5. Chapter 5

**TITLE: A Voice in the Dark**

**AUTHOR**: Lexie aka lillianschild

**FANDOM: **Spooks/MI5

**RATING: **PG13/R (probably in later chapters)

**PAIRING:** Lucas/OC

**SUMMARY: **Section D has a traitor in their midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.

**A/N:** this fic is my own version of Series 7. I will probably update it once a month, considering my busy work schedule, and try to pen a one-shot in between to continue my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series.

**CHAPTER FIVE**

When Tom left her alone in her bedroom and turned the key in the lock, Annabelle removed her blindfold and walked to the mullioned window. There was no grill over the outside and nothing in the room that she could use to pick the padlock which kept the window sealed. The only possibility of escape was to break the double-glazed pane, slip through the chipped glass and jump two storeys because there was no trellis or anything she could hold onto on her way down. The thought was discarded almost as soon as it had sprung up; the noise would have them barging into the room in no time and, even if she were lucky enough to get out of the room, the chance of her not breaking her neck or ending up in a wheelchair was too slim to risk it.

Several hours later, after devouring what she had to confess was the most mouth-watering lunch she'd ever tasted, she was stirred from her slumber by the sound of the key unlocking the door. Tom was back to retrieve the tray and leave a gift-wrapped box on the dressing-table before slipping out without uttering a word; no amount of cajoling on her part ever since her abduction had managed to get a word from him.

No sooner had the lights been turned on than she got up and crossed the room to grab the box and the small light-blue envelope she found on top of it. Curious, she slipped out the card and read the note scribbled in a masculine and beautiful handwriting- it shouldn't have come as a surprise considering who'd written it. Annabelle wondered if the wrapping would be as beguiling as everything about him she'd experienced so far; somehow, she suspected it would. A pity she'd never get to see what he actually looked like.

An invitation to dine accompanied by a classic black dress, thigh-high tights and a pair of matching high heels to wear for the occasion. This man would never cease to surprise her. Was this an attempt to seduce her? The gown wasn't the kind one would get off-the-peg; the fabric felt heavy, expensive and sensual to the touch. She'd never owned anything like it; her wardrobe featured mostly utilitarian clothes or sober trouser suits, an armour meant to disguise the softness both Harry and Lucas had managed to recognise in her.

She caressed the material, fighting the urge to try it on. She'd have to take off her cotton underwear and slip on the silk and lace one-piece designed to follow the cut of the dress or else her bra would show under the décolletage. _He's thought of everything_, she blushed. The temptation to give in just to see what he'd seen, if only in the privacy of her room, eventually won.

He'd got all her measures right. The meaning of such a discovey wasn't lost on her; he'd either checked out the labels on her clothes when going through her things or taken visual measurements while he interrogated her. Annabelle didn't know if she should feel insulted but, seeing the sensual and sophisticated woman reflected in the mirror, she acknowledged it was flattering to have a man think of her that way, especially when she had never seen herself in such a light.

* * *

Tom knocked and at the response, guided the young woman to her place at the table before untying her hands.

She didn't need to have her blindfold removed to know she'd never been in this room before, nor did she need the use of her eyes to realise _he_ was already there; she would have recognised that subtle yet utterly masculine fragrance anywhere.

"Good evening, Miss you for joining me," said the chocolatey voice close to her ear, helping her pull up her chair. "It seems apologies are in order; the dress didn't fit... Or is there another reason for your decision not to wear it tonight?"

"The gown was beautiful. It just wasn't my style," she replied, choosing to tell him the truth but keeping the fact it had actually fitted not to give him the satisfaction of knowing she'd even tried it on.

"You've been around the wrong men if that's what you've been taught to believe. Wine?"

"I'd rather have a glass of water, please," she said, wondering when she'd ever blushed so much around a man.

"I promise it hasn't been doctored nor am I trying to make you drunk to have my way with you," he reassured her with a smile in his voice.

"_One_ glass then. I wouldn't like my host to think of me as ungrateful," she told him. She wasn't planning on getting drunk but she needed the Dutch courage to live through dinner with her integrity intact.

A long-stemmed glass of cold white wine was placed in her hand and, once again, she felt butterflies in her stomach at the simple touch of those long, lean fingers, shaped like a musician's.

She took a rather large sip and welcomed the fact she now had something to hold onto that could help disguise the slight shaking of her hands.

"Is your job everything you hoped for when you gave up a promising career as a scholar? Does it make you happy, Annabelle?"

"I'm pleased when we manage to make a major dent in the plans of whoever happens to jeopardise the security of the realm. So, yes, I'm happy."

"Are you really satisfied with the outcome of the operation Sir Harry Pearce dragged you into six months ago, despite the fact that some very important links in the chain slipped through your fingers? Despite all the collateral damage? We haven't known each other for long, but I pride myself on knowing how to read people."

"Do you? Then you should already know I can't give you what I don't have. And you shouldn't have gone to all this trouble to impress me; you already knew I'd come. I'm your prisoner, after all."

"I know the current circumstances would never allow for you to consider yourself as my guest... Believe me when I say it's never been my intention to hurt you in any way. You're here only to talk."

"You're making me feel guilty. What is so special about me that makes me deserving of a treatment different from the one Carter and Delaney got? Is it because I'm a woman? What do you expect to get from me tonight?"

"I want us to pretend, if only for a short while, that we're just a normal couple- a man and a woman sharing a bottle of wine and having an intelligent conversation over dinner. No spy games. No secret agendas," he suggested, his velvety voice trickling over her like honey.

If she were honest with herself, she found the idea really alluring. There was no use pretending she wasn't aware of the attraction between them when it'd been there from the start. In fact, she had to keep reminding herself who he was and what he did because everything about him seemed contrary to the man she'd expected him to be. His manners, his tastes and his treatment of her were anything but coarse; he was what her late father would have called a genuine gentleman- the kind of partner he'd have wished for his only daughter. _God, you're falling into the most common place trap, Annabelle. You should know better than to become a willing victim of your captor. Stockholm Syndrome, remember? _

Even though she'd always been a sensible woman, she couldn't help but fall under the spell of his beautiful northern accent with a barely disguised flavour of Slavic and, yes, his subtle and utterly masculine scent. And who could blame her for wanting to believe him when he told her he meant her no harm? It was so difficult not to believe he actually cared, seeing the way he provided for her every comfort. After all, hadn't he even spent a night of vigil at her bedside afraid she was concussed?

Annabelle wondered how far she'd be willing to use the palpable attraction between them to her advantage; she should be disgusted to even consider it but she wasn't. Once again she appreciated the concealment provided by the blindfold she was made to wear whenever she was in his presence; what he stirred in her with his voice and the brush of his hands was dangerous enough without having to look at temptation in the eye.

"What's wrong?" he asked on hearing the door open, putting an end to her musings.

Was that annoyance in his voice? Not being able to tell what he was actually feeling, when reading his motivations was so important to her current predicament, frustrated her immensely.

"Мне очень жаль, дорогая. Боюсь, нам придется отложить наш обед. Something's turned up which demands my immediate attention," he apologised calmly after receiving a softly whispered message that she hadn't been able to make out."Maybe later... Please, forgive me."

* * *

After a tray had been delivered to her room and the elegant dinner savoured with a hearty appetite, Annabelle lay on her bed wondering what urgent business had interrupted the candlelight dinner the man with the silken voice had planned so carefully.

Мне очень жаль, дорогая. He'd called her _darling_ again and she couldn't help but remember the clear tinge of regret in his voice when he'd been forced to leave her alone.

Sleep didn't come easy that night; her mind being in a whirl and her emotions in a turmoil of confusion. Finally, exhausted, slumber found her only for Tom to shake her awake a few hours later.

His rough treatment of her was disconcerting after the kid glove routine which had been the norm ever since her capture, and Annabelle felt a tight knot in her stomach as sudden fear seized her.

Had it all been a game meant to lull her into a false sense of security? Had it all been a skilfully devised plan of her captor's to make her believe he was attracted to her and that such a protection would shelter her from harm?

Something was definitely not right seeing she was dragged down the stairs blindfolded and wearing only her nightclothes. This just wasn't _his_ style.

Tom opened a door and pushed her inside, pulling her down into a chair and tying her hands behind her back. She told herself there was nothing to be afraid of; her captor had promised he wouldn't hurt her...and yet, the palpable tense silence in the room told her something different. He was there; she could feel his powerful aura touch her with invisible fingers.

When Tom stepped back, she knew it was only a matter of time before the man she'd felt inexorably pulled to since her kidnapping made his move. However, what actually occurred was unlike anything she'd expected.

Long careful fingers threaded through her chestnut hair, untangling the tresses she hadn't been allowed to brush out. She found the gentle pull hypnotically relaxing, and the trepidation which had seized her eased a little. Maybe she'd read too much into Tom's actions, maybe he'd simply had a tough day and needed to take it out on someone. Maybe...

"Are you a liar, Annabelle?" asked close to her ear the dark and mellifluous voice she knew so well. "Is there a betraying heart beating behind that soft façade?" he added, suddenly clenching his until then caressing fingers in her hair, piercing her cocoon of safety and bringing her back to earth.

"What do you mean? I..." she began, making an effort to control the tremor in her voice.

"Don't lie to me," he interrupted her, his tone dangerously silky. "You said Adam Carter was with you on The Grid the night of the exchange, that he wasn't on the site where your asset was handed over to MI-5."

"Yes" she replied quietly, swallowing the lump in her throat, wondering where his questioning was heading. "Both of us were at Thames House. Harry Pearce sent him to get me..."

"Had you seen Carter before he came for you?"

"We spent the whole afternoon in the archives and then returned to our desks. He only stepped out twenty minutes to get us freshly brewed coffee and some snacks."

"Twenty minutes? Are you sure about the time frame? Immersed as I imagined you were in dossiers, couldn't your time perception have been altered?"

"I don't understand... What is it you're hinting at?"

"Are you sure he wasn't away longer? Enough to drive to the rendezvous point and back?"

"I'm sure. I'll never forget what time it was when he came back without the snacks and with the order for both of us to be airborne to the Hall where our asset was dying... a very painful death, denied the relief of drugs beyond local anaesthetics."

"How do you explain this picture then?" he asked coldly after an eerily pregnant silence, pulling her blindfold back from behind and placing the heels of his hands on either side of her temples to make sure her eyes were focused on the black and white grainy photo projected on the wall. "That's you, Miss Reed, isn't it? You and Carter really cosy outside the warehouse where your asset was being beaten and tortured within an inch of his life."

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "We weren't there... I wasn't there. Are you suggesting... "

she croaked, "are you suggesting Carter and I... that I witnessed that savagery and..."

"Are you saying this picture was doctored? That you and your partner aren't the traitors this evidence reveals you to be. That you didn't know the identity of the prisoner," he grated, tightening the hold on her hair.

"You can't... you can't believe I would..."

"I don't know what to believe. If there's one thing I've learnt in this business, it's that at the end of the day there's only one person you can trust- yourself."

"Does Tom know that's what you think?" she replied in defiance, determined not to reveal how frightened she was.

"Do you deny it's you in that picture?"

"I can't. I was there... but not that night. That location's been used as a rendezvous point by MI5 more than once. I don't know what your source's told you but that photo was taken last year."

The quality of the enlarged photo was poor, but she recognised herself and the other MI5 operative, only it wasn't Adam she was being embraced by. Although the height and build of both male officers were similar, the man in the shot was older. "That's not Carter."

"You'd better not be lying to me, Annabelle."

"I know it isn't him because he wasn't the one I had to pose as a girlfriend for. It was one of my rare undercover operations, one which required my skills as a linguist. "

"Is that so? What's the man's name?"

"Whoever gave you this is just playing with you."

"Who is the man, Annabelle?" he insisted, and for a fleeting moment she imagined she could hear a trace of jealousy in the question. "And think carefully before giving me an answer," he whispered against her hair.

So far, she'd not been hurt and she supposed she ought to be grateful, but she was no fool; she could recognise leashed anger when she was around it.

* * *

He'd promised... The jab of the needle had taken her completely unawares and, for the first time since her abduction, she experienced real panic.

"I swear I didn't have anything to do with what they did to him. Please... don't do this," she begged.

"What in God's name are you doing?! She was going to give me his name. I'd given her my word," she heard him shout from a distance as the drugs kicked in.

"I don't want to be one more on the list of those who'd failed to watch your back. You should know better than to let a pretty face blind you. You know this is the only way you'll be 100% certain what she's saying is nothing but the truth," replied Tom soberly."Ask her again who the man in the photo is. Ask her about the offshore account in her name and if she's a member of Tiresias."

Annabelle's mouth felt as if it were full of cotton and no matter how hard she tried to put her jumbled thoughts into words, she was physically incapable of denying any of the accusations which were being hurled at her once again.

Why didn't he do anything? Why did he allow Tom to treat her this way? He was the one who was supposed to be in charge. Why didn't he rescue her?

"Please... help me," she slurred.

* * *

By the time Lucas finally answered her pleas and held her in his arms, she was no longer aware of the world around her.

When she came to she wasn't wearing a blindfold any more and yet darkness surrounded her.

She could still hear a kaleidoscope of muffled voices ringing in her ears. Harry's and Adam's... Tom's... and, above them all, the agonised whispers which had remained with her since that fateful night she hadn't been able to put behind herself.

Although she couldn't remember what the voices had asked or what she'd said, there was something she was sure of, she'd told them everything she knew just as Tom had predicted she would when he'd injected her that serum. She'd broken down, but she hadn't been alone, a pair of arms had caught her, arms which had made her feel safe in spite of it all.

Her mouth was dry and her throat felt like sandpaper when she tried to swallow.

"Easy," said the voice of her captor's softly. "Small sips or you'll make yourself sick," he added, slipping his hand under her head gingerly to help her drink.

"How long..." she asked in a raspy voice as he carefully laid her head against the pillow.

"Too long, _Golubushka_. I thought you'd never wake up."

Annabelle told herself she should hate him and recoil in disgust from him after what he'd allowed Tom to put her through. However, the undeniable anger and concern in his voice, the gentleness of his touch mollified her. Even though she couldn't remember everything that she'd been asked and everything she'd said, she could still hear the censure in the shouts he'd addressed to Tom as the syringe had pricked her neck and feel the ghost of his gentle arms around her when, drained, she'd broken down and sobbed.

"Извините. Мне так жаль, " he apologised quietly.

"You do believe me, don't you?" she asked in a thin voice, turning her face on the pillow in the direction of his voice."I wasn't there... I could have never... done that to him,"she hiccuped.

"Shhh... I know. I believe you. Now rest, _Golubushka_." he soothed her, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead."You're safe now. I swear I won't let anyone hurt you again and that includes me. "

"Please," she beseeched him, grabbing his shirt with trembling fingers as he started to move away from her body,"please, let me go. I promise I won't tell them anything."

"I wish I could, Annabelle. There's too much I've yet to understand. Believe me when I say it isn't safe for you to leave just now. Let me live up to the promise I've made to you. I won't see you harmed."

Not for the first time she resented being engulfed in this darkness, unable to make out the face of this man who'd managed to breach the protective walls around her.

"Please," she whispered again, feeling the tears finally rolling down her cheeks, her deep attraction for the dark stranger waging war in her chest against the urgent need to go back to the safety of home.

"_Golubushka,_" he murmured wiping away the moisture from her face, a tender move which only ended up having the opposite effect when she was suddenly seized by racking sobs.

Whispered words of comfort and the safe refuge of his arms eventually chased the storm away.

"Go to sleep now, Annabelle," he told her softly.

"I don't think I can... Would you... would you stay with me? Just..." she stammered.

"Of course. I'll stay until you fall asleep."

"Do you think you could... ? Would you talk to me?"

"What do you want me to talk about?"

"It doesn't matter what... I just find your voice... soothing."

"OK," he replied with a smile. "I don't know any bed time stories. Do you like poetry?"

"Mm," she assented.

"Then, close your eyes," he commanded gently before starting with a poem his father, the minister, used to recite to him when he was a child.

_Sweet dreams, form a shade  
O'er my lovely infant's head!  
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams  
By happy, silent, moony beams! _

_Sweet Sleep, with soft down  
Weave thy brows an infant crown!  
Sweet Sleep, angel mild,  
Hover o'er my happy child! _

_Sweet smiles, in the night  
Hover over my delight!  
Sweet smiles, mother's smiles,  
All the livelong night beguiles. _

_Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,  
Chase not slumber from thy eyes!  
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,  
All the dovelike moans beguiles. _

_Sleep, sleep, happy child!  
All creation slept and smiled.  
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,  
While o'er thee thy mother weep. _

_Sweet babe, in thy face  
Holy image I can trace;  
Sweet babe, once like thee  
Thy Maker lay, and wept for me: _

_Wept for me, for thee, for all,  
When He was an infant small.  
Thou His image ever see,  
Heavenly face that smiles on thee! _

_Smiles on thee, on me, on all,  
Who became an infant small;  
Infant smiles are His own smiles;  
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. _

The sun was rising on the horizon when he untangled Annabelle's fingers from his and slipped out of the room. No matter how much he wished he could have stayed and watched her beautiful tear-stained face in repose, light was his enemy.

* * *

When Tom entered the study a couple of hours later, Lucas was sitting in an armchair, studying the grainy black and white photo which had precipitated the events of the previous morning as if it held the secrets of the universe.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" asked Tom, setting down his on the coffee table between them.

The answer was lying on the mahogany desk in front of the window; an empty mug and a plate with only breadcrumbs.

"How is she?" he added when no response was heard.

"I don't like you very much this morning, Quinn," gritted Lucas, looking at his friend from under his long eyelashes.

"You know you'd have done the same in my shoes, Lucas. Sometimes it's necessary for an impartial party to step in. You'd been dancing around each other for far too long, entangled in whatever this... this thing... between you is called."

"Christ, Tom! You injected her a dose which could have knocked out an elephant."

"It got you the answers you wanted, didn't it? She's clean. Lucas, you can hate me all you want for what I did yesterday, but I only had your interests and your ex-wife's at heart. For all we knew, Annabelle might have been a KGB sleeper since her childhood, planted in MI5 after my resignation to be activated at their convenience."

"Tell Christine I want her to arrange a meeting with her contact."

"You're not thinking of going on your own."

"I'll use the confessional in that church we used to attend on Sundays when we were at university. I don't need to see his face to get what I want from him."

"Who's the man in the picture, Lucas? "

"A ghost from the past. He knows I was the source and must be aware I'm alive. This picture proves it. He's made his move. Now it's time I made mine."

"OK. We'll play it your way, but I'll go 's non-negotiable," replied Tom, taking a sip of his frothy coffee.

"Talk to your wife. I'm going to have a walk in the gardens."

"Lucas?"

"What?"

"At least now you know she's as obsessed as you are," smiled Tom smugly in obvious reference to Annabelle.

"She's obsessed with a dead man."

"I've been expecting your call," replied the voice after the third ring.

"Come to the usual rendezvous point at five. Alone. We need to talk."

"L..."

"Watch your back," snapped Lucas, disconnecting the call.

**TBC**

* * *

**A/N**: _Golubushka_ is a term of endearment equivalent to "my darling" and it means "little dove."

The poem which Lucas recited to Annabelle is William Blake's_ 'A Cradle Song' (from "Songs of Innocence") ._


	6. Chapter 6

**TITLE: **A Voice in the Dark

**AUTHOR**: Lexie aka lillianschild

**FANDOM: **Spooks/MI5

**RATING: **PG13/R (probably in later chapters)

**PAIRING:** Lucas/OC

**SUMMARY: **Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.

**Disclaimer**: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

**A/N: **this fic is my own version of Series 7. I will probably update it once a month, considering my busy work schedule, and try to pen a one-shot in between to continue my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series.

**CHAPTER 6**

When Annabelle woke up the following day, the sun was high up in the sky and her head was throbbing with a dull ache.

Closing her eyes, she remembered the events of the previous night, the way his gentle and soothing touch had affected her and what it'd felt like to be held in his arms. She should stop daydreaming about her captor, but deep down she was aware it was a lot easier said than done.

Last night had been a real turning point, an experience which had left her vulnerable and emotionally stripped. She wished she could wash away the imprint of his hands and lips on her skin because, as welcome and comforting as they'd been, they only reminded her of what would never be hers.

Stepping out of the shower, she studied her face in the mirror and saw the strain of the past few days reflected in the depth of her eyes. Carefully applied make-up helped her disguise the evidence of last night's tears and gave her back the appearance of normalcy she craved. She was once again calm and collected, outwardly unaffected by his interference in her life.

Annabelle couldn't help but go over the events of the previous day. Someone had provided her kidnappers with that photo to convince them she was the one who'd betrayed the dying man. Clearly, whoever had furnished her captor with this allegedly incontestable proof of her guilt wanted to detract attention from his own involvement.

Soon after she'd finished with her ablutions a knock was heard.

"Come in," she called, surprised when the door opened and a tall, slim and very attractive man in his early thirties stepped in carrying a tray.

Tom. She recognised his gait and perfume.

"He'd like to see you once you've finished your lunch," he told her, his voice as deep and musical as that of his partner. "I hope you're feeling better this morning."

"Is that an apology?" she cocked a thin and shapely eyebrow.

"If there's anyone to answer for what happened yesterday, that would be me. He didn't want you harmed in any way, and I went against his wishes. It was my call, my decision, and I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"Had our roles been reversed and several lives been at stake, I'd probably have done the same. As to your apology, the fact that I'm not wearing a blindfold and you're showing your face for the first time is enough proof of your contrition and your actual trust in me. So let's bygones be bygones, shall we?"

"Will you come then? To meet him I mean."

"Yes," she agreed after a pause.

* * *

An hour later Annabelle was escorted to the ground floor, full of anticipation at the prospect of finally seeing face-to-face the mysterious man who had managed to bewitch her like some powerful sorcerer. However, it wasn't meant to be for, as soon as she crossed the threshold with Tom, she found herself in a dimmed-lit room once again.

It took her eyes a few moments to adjust and yet, all she could make out was a shape wrapped in shadows thanks to the strategic position of the desk lamp, which concealed his features with its brightness.

Tom ushered her to an armchair far from where her mystery man was sitting and then took a seat across from her closer to the desk.

"How do you feel?" asked the silken voice.

"As if I'd been run over by a herd of elephants," she replied, letting out a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I'd made you a promise, and I pride myself on being a man of my word. My partner... ."

"You mean _Tom_. He's taken all the blame upon himself and, finally, shown his face," she cut him off, a clear note of censure in her voice which seemed to suggest a challenge addressed to her interlocutor to get him to follow his partner's lead.

"I understand your anger... ."

"Do you?"

"I'm only thinking of what's best for your safety."

"Is that the truth? Is the thought of my protection what prevents you from stepping out of the shadows or is there something else?"

"I invited you to come down because I thought you'd like to know why you're here and what lies ahead."

"And what is that, now that I can identify one of you? I'm not naïve. "

"I know it must be difficult for you to believe anything that comes from my mouth after what happened yesterday, but..."

Annabelle made an attempt to steel herself against that voice which he used like a gifted musician. He sounded so sincere that her resolve to put an end to the inexplicable attraction between them was soon defeated. After all, hadn't his arms been the ones to hold her and his gentle hands the ones to soothe her through the waves of nausea, the cold sweat and the unstoppable shaking which seized her body as her system absorbed the serum Tom had injected her?

"Try me," she replied. "When I entered this room you told me you'd summoned me to share your plans for me. "

"I can't let you go. Not until whoever sold out your source is identified and stopped."

Annabelle was still as intrigued as the very first day. Weren't her abductors FSB agents and weren't they the ones behind all the killings? Or was this a case of a pair of cleaners shadowing a rogue Russian agent who was carrying out some kind of personal vendetta?

"Eight years ago MI5 discovered there was a Russian mole in their midst. Nobody knew their identity and so Harry Pearce decided to send his most trusted officer to follow the trail back to Moscow," he began. " Haven't you ever asked yourself why your boss has kept you in the dark this long?"

"The dying man... he... he was MI5? Is that what you're saying? Are you suggesting someone in Section D sold out one of their own? That my co-workers are the real enemy and that Sir Harry's involved? I don't believe you."

Memories of the night she hadn't been able to shake off in months assaulted her once again. Had the dying man been sent to an early grave by the same people he must have trusted to keep his back so many times in defence of the realm? She'd spent a few hours with him in a dark room, listening to his cracking voice and sharing in his agony. His courage and his endurance, his readiness to go through hell and give his life to spare hundreds had left an indelible mark on her. The man had known too much; he must have been either a repentant FSB agent or a British spy who'd managed to penetrate the impregnable fortress of the Russian intelligence headquarters and learn its secrets.

"Sir Harry would have never betrayed one of his own," she added softly, refusing to believe that the man who'd been her surrogate father wasn't what she thought he was.

She hated doubting her mentor and yet, she couldn't help but remember her conviction that Harry hadn't been absolutely sincere with her when it came to their asset's death. At the time she'd thought the lie had to do with the way the man had died; there had been a minute there when she'd believed her boss involved in hastening the man's passing to spare him any further agony. But even that suspicion had shown the head of Section D in a humane light, nothing like this. Could it be Harry had instead been lying about everything?

"If what you're suggesting is true... If he felt his own superior had abandoned him, betrayed him," she replied, swallowing the big lump in her throat,"then why didn't he give us Pearce's name? Why..."

"What do you know of an operation called Sugarhorse?" he interrupted her quietly.

"I've never heard of it. And even if I had, I would never share government secrets with the enemy."

"I'm not the enemy."

"Then show your face and tell me who you are."

"There would be no harm in that now. She's more than earned it. Don't you think it's time?" voiced Tom, looking at the man behind the desk.

The tension in the room suddenly increased. She liked Tom better after the unexpected outburst; but doubted it would make much of a difference. The man in the shadows had a quiet determination and strength which she suspected would hardly be swayed when challenged.

"Leave us," replied the mystery man.

"I don't think..."

"Don't you trust Miss Reed, Tom? "

"It's OK, Tom. I promise I won't attack him. And I'm sure he has no intention of ravishing me. So you see, I think we'd both be safe if left alone in a room," she smirked. "Don't you agree?" she asked the man in the dark after a short pause.

* * *

"Я не тот, кто вы думаете. "

"If you aren't who I think you are, then why don't you reveal yourself? I'm tired of riddles and darkness, aren't you?"

"Sometimes darkness is all there is."

"_Look on the rising sun: there God does live,  
And gives his light, and gives his heat away;  
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive  
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday._

_And we are put on earth a little space,_  
_That we may learn to bear the beams of love;_  
_And these black bodies and this sunburnt face_  
_Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove._

_For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,_  
_The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,_  
_Saying: "Come out from the grove, my love & care,_  
_And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.''_

"You like Blake?"

"And you like poetry. So did the man I heard dying that night. What was he to you? He wrapped himself in shadows when he learnt a woman was going to debrief him. What is it that _you_ don't want me to see? "

"I'll ask Tom to get you some poetry books. If there's any other favourite apart from Blake, let him know. It'll give you something to while away the hours during my absence," he replied after a pregnant pause, skirting round the question he obviously didn't intend to answer.

"Your absence?"

"You're staying here, where it's safe. Tom's going to look after you. I swear we won't let whoever's behind this get to you or harm you in any way."

"How long will you be away?"

"I thought you'd welcome the reprieve. You'll miss me?" he teased her with a smile in his voice.

"There would have to be feelings of closeness involved for me to miss you, and you are just not my type."

"And who's more your type? Him?" he asked, pointing at the grainy black and white photograph which had trigged the events of the previous day.

"Do I hear a hint of jealousy in your voice?"

"You can do better than him, Annabelle."

"I thought any misconceptions you might have had about the nature of my relationship with him were dispelled yesterday. I thought you believed me."

"And I do. It's him I don't trust," he said coldly.

"Is he the mole?"

"Probably. But even if he weren't, he's an unsavoury character; one I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy."

"Why do I have the feeling there's history between you two?"

"You're right; there is. However, my reservations have nothing to do with a personal vendetta. They go way beyond that. I promise I'll tell you the story one day, but not today."

"In our line of business, we rarely get the luxury of living up to promises made for another day. The Latin adage _Carpe Diem_ is part of our world."

"Somehow I don't think you fit the mould. Seizing the day would never be enough for someone like you. "

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant that way."

"Why won't you show me your face?"

"Reality seldom lives up to one's expectations."

"I'd have never thought of you as an insecure person. "

"Annabelle..."

"Yes?"

"I... "

Whatever confession, if any, he was about to make got interrupted by Tom's untimely barging into the room.

"I'm sorry," apologised the intruder. "You'd better hurry. There's been an unexpected development."

"Это прощание, затем," the man in the shadows said softly.

* * *

_прощайте_. Goodbye... not 'See you later'. His last word had sounded too much like a farewell, and the echo of finality in that greeting still did odd things to her stomach.

Curiously, it wasn't her well-being but her captor's she was worried about as she lay on her bed. Fear assailed her waking hours and she found herself willing his safe return. It wasn't until the wee small hours of the morning, when she managed to fall asleep, that her disquiet was replaced with images of assuaging a passion whose power threatened to burn everything in its path.

It was as if they'd been predestined, as if their souls and their fates had been entangled long ago. It was the only way she could explain this overwhelming urge to have his lips and fingers touch her face and her skin once again.

And in her dreams she surrendered to the shadows and let them wrap her in their alluring warmth.

**TBC**

**A/N:** The extract of the poem which Annabelle recited to Lucas is from "The Little Black Boy" by William Blake.


	7. Chapter 7

******TITLE: **A Voice in the Dark

**AUTHOR**: Lexie aka lillianschild

**FANDOM: **Spooks/MI5

**RATING: **PG13/R (The rating of the current chapter is a Mild R)

**PAIRING:** Lucas/OC

**SUMMARY: **Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.

**Disclaimer**: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

**A/N: **this fic is my own version of Series 7. I will probably update it once a month, considering my busy work schedule, and try to pen a one-shot in between to continue my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series.

**A/N 2: **Sorry for the long delay in posting but RL got in the way. Hopefully, I'll be able to post an update every month as planned when I stated sharing this fic. Now I'm off to working on a new instalment of my G & M fic "To Be Worthy". Enjoy!

**CHAPTER 7**

The days dragged on, and Annabelle toyed with different plans to run away now that she was no longer restrained, plans which she discarded one by one. Although a few weeks ago she'd have celebrated being alone in the house with Tom, for it would have made her escape a lot more feasible, now she felt more protected around her kidnappers than around those whose allegiances she no longer trusted.

True to the promise she'd been made, several volumes of poetry and Russian literature appeared on her bedside table the following day. They helped her while away the hours, but they did little to assuage the sudden inexplicable fear which had seized her as one day turned into two and then three and he didn't return. What was it about this man that had managed to tap a cord within her no adult male ever had? Why did the thought of never being able to hear his voice again or see his face at last filled her with such a sense of overwhelming loss?

"It's been four days... Tom, where has he gone?"she asked one morning, unable to keep pretending indifference any longer.

"Annabelle..."

"I know when someone says goodbye and believes it might be forever."

"You returned your dinner tray untouched last night. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

"I'm not hungry."

"If he finds you half-starved when he comes back, he'll have my precious neck."

"I won't let either you or whoever's out there killing my unit strip me of the last shred of control I have over my life. Nobody's going to order me when to eat."

"I thought you liked me."

"I was starting to until you got patronising."

"Patronising?"

"What is this conversation if not patronising? You want me to believe I'm not here as a prisoner but as a guest. You want me to trust you, to believe you only had my best interest at heart when you abducted me from my own home. And yet you lie to me- even if it is by omission- and treat me like a fool."

"He's strong and resourceful," he replied after a pregnant silence.

"That doesn't answer my original question."

"It's the only answer I have."

"The only one you have? Or the only one you're willing to give?"

* * *

"It was high time," exhaled Tom on seeing Lucas cross the threshold. "What in heaven's name happened?"

"You want the long or the short version?"

"The abridged will do till the morning. How long has it been since you last slept?"

"You know the answer to that one better than anyone."

Yes, it'd been a foolish question to ask. Lucas' nightmares had awoken Tom and Christine many a time, and finding their friend sitting in the dark in the middle of the night had become a common occurrence. Lucas and insomnia had been close friends ever since his return from Russia.

"So...what happened?"

"Your wife's contact is dead. He was murdered in the archives at Thames House and so was the junior case officer who apparently witnessed the execution- Ben Kaplan. Same MO. Did you know him?"

"No, he must have joined when Carter was appointed. What about the CCTV cameras?"

"There was a power cut in Section D and the emergency generator failed to respond. By the time Malcolm fixed the problem and the cameras were back on both operatives were dead."

"No doubt it was an inside job. Have you talked to Harry?"

"Oh, yes," he smirked, pouring himself a shot of vodka.

"What did he say?"

"We had a very illuminating chat."

"And...?"

"And... what about you? Any problems I should know of?"

"So this is how we're going to play it. You know what? I have a wife I haven't seen in four days, and I too need to catch up on some sleep. Why don't you go to Annabelle's room and tell her you're back? We both know it's what you want and, judging by the way she's behaved since you were gone, I believe you'll find out she does too."

"You don't know what you're saying."

"You've sacrificed eight years of your life. Whatever it is you found out in your tête-à-tête with Harry can wait a few hours or you'd have already shared it with me. You deserve to be a little selfish for a change."

"Enough people have got hurt already."

"Annabelle's a smart young woman, Lucas. At least, grant her the right to decide what it is that she wants."

* * *

She felt the ghost of his lips brush her fingers and then press a soft kiss on the quickened pulse of her delicate wrists. Annabelle turned in her sleep, making an unconscious effort to shake off the cruel taunting of the recurrent dream.

Just as it happened every night, she responded to him, raising from her lonely bed to rest against the security of his body.

"Annabelle," whispered the voice she missed in her waking hours. "Annabelle," insisted the chocolatey baritone.

Lucas felt the soft caress of her fingers on his scalp as she buried them in his hair. Sitting on the edge of her bed, he found their movement erotically soothing and her body pressed to his sweetly inviting. Her delicate perfume was proving hard to resist, but it wasn't until he knew for sure she was awake and not just dreaming that he responded to her call, crushing her against his chest and burying his face in the chamomile-scented softness of her hair.

Lowering his head, he grazed the hollow of her collarbone with his lips and then kissed her shoulder before tracing the milky column of her throat. His touch was as light as a feather and yet it sent her heart racing. The brush of his lips was sensually tantalising, first against her temples and then her closed eyes, until the long-awaited moment arrived when he sought her mouth in a scorching kiss which left both of them breathless.

"You missed me," he murmured softly, his forehead leaning against hers, clearly overwhelmed by her eager response.

"When four days went by and you didn't come..." she whispered, her voice cracking as her hand stroked his cheek.

"I should have shaved first," he said sheepishly.

"I like it like this," she smiled, feeling his masculine stubble. "You can clean up in the morning... I was so afraid..."

"I've made you a promise, _Golubushka,"_ he replied warmly, gathering her against his body, "and I have every intention of keeping it. Nobody'll ever hurt you again."

Annabelle relished his embrace and wished she could tell him openly her fear had had nothing to do with her own safety, but rather with the disquieting thought which had plagued her as days went by, that she might never get to hear his voice again. Confessing that particular secret would give him even more power over her than he already had.

"It wasn't my original intention to be away for so long."

"Was your meeting with someone from Section D?"

"Annabelle..." he began, tucking a few strands of her hair behind her ears.

"Just tell me you had nothing to do with our asset's death... or with Adam and Dr Delaney's," she interrupted him, a barely disguised tone of hopeful pleading in her voice.

"Клянусь, я этого не сделал," he answered quickly.

He swore he didn't. And- God help her if she was deluding herself- she believed him. Maybe she was just choosing to believe what she wished was the truth to justify this powerful attraction between them and the step she was about to take, but she was tired of fighting. She'd known from the start that he'd break her, only she'd thought it'd entail betraying other people's secrets and not losing her heart.

Shaky fingers undid the buttons of his shirt and then slipped inside the opening to feel the smoothness of his skin. Broad shoulders and shapely upper-arms were traced with delicate strokes that scabbed a hundred wounds. Fingertips explored long uncharted territories, seeking to read in the surprisingly slender contours the secret past he kept hidden from the world.

In the dark, touch was the only language they used to learn each other, and the unhurried unveiling of what lay beneath the clothing that separated them rendered the exploration infinitely sensual. His long-fingered hands outlined her curves with gentle strokes in much the same way a painter sketches on a canvas before executing a masterpiece. And as she felt the cool of the room kiss her feverish skin while his hands journeyed upward, gradually exposing her body to his lips, Annabelle arched her pliant body like an instrument eager to be played.

Kissing the hollow between her generous breasts, already free from the confines of her nightdress, Lucas felt her heart beat like a frightened animal's. It had been a long time for him, eight years without knowing a woman's touch or experiencing the communion of two souls like the one he'd only known with Vyeta, and his well-known control was hanging by a thread. He lowered his head once again and blew a warm puff of air over her breast; and there it came, a sob. He'd let his selfish needs blind him and misread the signs.

Slowly he pulled away; he'd been deprived of the power to decide his own destiny and suffered the manipulation of a ruthless jailer not to know what must be going though her mind.

"I promised I wouldn't let anyone hurt you again, and that includes me," he murmured, pressing a kiss into her palm. "I know what it feels like to have the control over your life snatched away, Annabelle. Maybe you believe that giving yourself to me is the only bargaining chip you've got to keep yourself safe."

"It isn't like that..."

"You don't need to lie to me. I have never taken advantage of a woman, and I'm not about to start now, no matter how enticing the offer. "

"I thought you wanted me," she said shakily as he sat up on the bed.

"I still do. But not like this, not ruled by fear. Not unless you're willing to come to me freely. I don't want it to be a sacrifice; there's already been too much of that. Go to sleep, _Golubushka._"

"Stay," she stopped him, grabbing his hand when she felt him pull away. "Stay with me tonight," she pleaded, not caring if she revealed the full extent of her feelings for him. "Just hold me."

"I'm afraid I'm not that strong. If I stay tonight, I'll do a lot more than just holding you. It's been too long... I'm no good at playing games," he added softly, stroking her cheek.

"It isn't a game," she replied, her eyes welling up.

"Then why are you crying?" he asked with an indefinable emotion in his voice, feeling the wetness of her tears on his fingertips.

"I don't know... I only know that I care about you. You must think me crazy, but from the first moment I heard your voice I felt a connection with you, as if I recognised you. And when you touched me... it felt right when common sense told me it shouldn't."

"You don't know anything about me," he said quietly.

"I don't need to see what you look like or to learn what you're called to know who you are. "

"How do you know I am the one you think me to be? Most of the times even I don't know who I am any more. "

Sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her, Lucas felt her reach in the darkness that enveloped them and take his hand once again and, in a gesture which mirrored his, press a kiss on his palm.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked after a long pregnant silence.

She nodded against the hand she still held to her cheek.

With slow and sensuous movements he pulled her down to lie next to him, his lips nudging against the throbbing pulse of her neck and then tracing her milky breasts in search of her pebbled peaks. Annabelle's long legs soon fell apart involuntarily to cradle him and welcome his demanding caresses, which fanned the molten lava that was already coursing through her veins.

Finally surrounded by her liquid warmth, Lucas felt unexpected tears burn behind his eyelids. It wasn't fair; but then nothing is fair in this world. He'd told himself a night was all he could give her, that he was no longer the man he used to be, that he could have her once and walk away unscathed. He'd been wrong on all three counts.

* * *

"Is everything all right?" she murmured sensing his strange mood, her face resting on his chest as they both caught their breath and their galloping heartbeat returned to normal.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking that question?" he chuckled, gathering her to him.

"I have no regrets." She turned around in his arms, soothed by the caressing sound of his voice and the fading fragrance of his aftershave. "I never knew I could feel that way," she added emotionally, curving her urge to touch his face and learn his features.

Lowering his mouth towards her, he tasted her lips gently, coaxing her to invite him in. She acquiesced, knowing their borrowed time would soon come to an end.

Whispered endearments in Russian poured out of his mouth the moment his lips found moisture on its trail.

"Love me again," she begged him as his thumbs carefully wiped away her tears.

And he did. His musky perfume on her sheets was the only proof Annabelle found in the morning to convince her their intimate time together hadn't been a dream once again.

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**TITLE: **A Voice in the Dark

**AUTHOR**: Lexie aka lillianschild

**FANDOM: **Spooks/MI5

**RATING: **PG13/R (probably in later chapters)

**PAIRING:** Lucas/OC

**SUMMARY: **Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. This fic is my own version of Series 7

**Disclaimer**: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

**A/N:**. I'm going to come back to this one as soon as I'm done writing Chapter 3 of my Guy & Marian fic "To Be Worthy".

**CHAPTER VIII**

"Christine says the bait's already in place. Do you think our friend will turn up?"

"He wants me. He knows I can blow up his cover. The fact that they haven't caught him so far means I haven't talked about him yet, or so he thinks. He can't run the risk of letting me live. He'll take the bait. Trust me, Tom."

"Who is he, Lucas?"

"Do you remember the story I told you the night we got drunk and decided to apply to MI5?"

"The stuff of nightmares. How could I ever forget? Was he part of it? I thought they were all dead."

"So did I. And in a way he is. He's changed his name, but I'm the only one who's seen his face and knows about his past. And his being identified as a Russian mole by the British Service will be a picnic compared to what will happen to him when his involvement in this whole other business comes to light. He knows there won't be any deals with the Russians to save his skin the way mine was."

"Shouldn't we tell Annabelle?"

"He won't see her, so there's no need."

"Lucas..."

"Leave it, Tom. We can't all have your happy ending."

"That's the most foolish thing I've ever heard you say. When this is over..."

"When this is over, she'll go back to her old life. And if God is fair, she'll meet and marry someone who's whole and can make her happy."

"Are you sure that's what she wants? Have you asked her"

"Have you had a real good look at me lately, Tom?"

"I only see someone who's throwing away a once-in-a-lifetime chance to find happiness with a woman who would never judge a book by its cover. I've never thought I'd ever call you a coward, but I can't think of a better word to describe you right now."

* * *

Annabelle was still asleep when Tom knock on the door. It was well past ten in the morning and not only was she in bed, she was in the nude.

Rushing to slip on the nightdress that had been discarded the previous night, she did her best to straighten up the sheets and the pillow on which her lover's perfume had lingered as proof that their night hadn't been just a dream. Composed, she allowed Tom in.

She closed her eyes both to savour the fragrance of the freshly-brewed coffee and cover up the embarrassment provoked by the knowledge that Tom must be aware she hadn't slept alone this time.

Hoping her discomfiture wasn't showing on her face, she finally reached for the wicker tray to place it across her lap and met Tom's eyes, seeing an indefinable emotion reflected in them. Overwhelmed by a sudden tightening in her throat, she glanced down to find a tea rose lying next to the cup. _I'll remember. Always. _She caressed the fragile petals and felt the burning of treacherous tears threatening to roll down her cheeks. The flower was but a reminder of what she knew in her heart. They were loving on borrowed time.

"Bon appetit," he said gently, stepping out into the corridor and closing the door quietly behind him. He no longer bothered to engage the lock, and it'd been days since the last time he tied her hands. It appeared he'd known her heart even before she did. She wouldn't escape. How could she when she was being held prisoner by her own feelings for the man in the dark?

Once her breakfast was over, she buried her nose in the pillow and inhaled the fragrance she knew she'd be able to recognise years from now. The urge to stay in bed away from the outside world, alone with the memories they'd made, was strong. It was no longer easy to tell right from wrong, to do her duty no questions asked and, for the first time since her abduction, she found herself hoping that Harry and her team would believe her dead. It was preposterous to think she'd be able to return to her old life and pretend. Maybe he'd been right after all, she wasn't cut out to be a spook; she'd never been good at lying. She'd promised a night was all that she wanted from him... _Seizing the day would never be enough for someone like you..._ Even in the dark he knew her heart better than anyone.

* * *

"Come with me."

"Did he say yes?" she asked Tom, hating the quiver in her voice.

"He's waiting for you in the library. Annabelle..."

"Take me downstairs, Tom," she cut him off, fearing she'd break down if he voiced what she'd read in his eyes.

Although the room that seemed to be the mystery man's refuge during his waking hours was just a couple of flights away, it felt as if it lay an ocean away, judging by the way time seemed to drag on until they reached the door.

"Come in," commanded the voice which never failed to turn her into a quivering mass.

Once again the strategically placed lamp on his desk concealed his identity. Nothing seemed to have changed and yet everything had.

"I can see regret written on your face. I knew you'd have second thoughts come morning... I should have been stronger and left you alone... I'm sorry. I should have..."

"Please, don't," she interrupted him. "You did nothing I hadn't ask for. We were two consenting adults, and I can't say in all honesty I regret anything about last night. God help me, I would do it again given the chance. It isn't us being together that I regret, never that."

"If not that then what?" he asked softly.

"I can't go back to whom I was and lie to Harry and everyone who's ever trusted in me by pretending I didn't betray them... I can't pretend there's never been an us... I don't even want to... What does that make me if not a traitor?"

"I've seen betrayal in the face and nothing you've done ever since I met you identifies you as a traitor. You're a survivor. There's no shame in that. You've been abducted, drugged and interrogated for days on end and not once have you done anything you should apologise to Sir Harry or anyone for. "

"I betrayed a colleague. I gave you a name."

"You gave me nothing I hadn't had already."

"I don't understand... The picture..."

"I needed to see your reaction and verify that the name he was using wasn't Carter. I had intel from within your very own unit that pointed at you and your former chief of section as FSB moles. Your asset was sold by someone you probably used to sit across from on The Grid too. If you're looking for anyone to blame for treachery, look at Thames House not in the mirror... Annabelle... when this is over, go back to the life you knew before you were recruited. Someone as pure-hearted as you shouldn't be part of Sir Harry's world or mine."

"Please... why won't you let me see you?" she begged him, eager to see the face of the man whose tenderness and solicitude were so at odds with the image of a ruthless spy and kidnapper."What are you so afraid of? My hands have already learned you... You're a little above six feet tall. You're broad-shouldered and athletic, though somewhat undernourished for some reason... It makes me wish I were a better cook," she smiled."You have long-fingered hands that remind me of a musician's... and you're probably in bad need of a haircut... Although something tells me women would find you attractive even with shoulder-length hair," she chuckled.

A long silence ensued and, already attuned to his moods, she realised something about her words had affected him in a way she hadn't predicted.

"You've described an idealised version of who you think I am. Dreams are seldom true, Annabelle. They're just that, dreams. I'd hate to see yours shattered."

"Nothing can change the way you make me feel," she murmured, wishing she could look into his eyes and read his emotions the way she'd learnt to read the nuances of his voice.

"Annabelle... Soon you'll return to your world and look back at our time together as you would a dream. I'm your jailer and you're my captive held against her 's what you'll tell Sir Harry and the world."

"I'd know that isn't the truth or, at least, not the whole truth."

"That's between you and me and that's the way it'll stay."

"These aren't the Middle Ages nor am I a damsel in distress whose virtue needs to be protected."

"Leave me my dreams of chivalry; it's the only thing I can offer you, _Golubushka_. Let me give you at least that."

"Can't you tell me your name?"

"You know I can't. It'd complicate matters even more. My God, Annabelle, it's never been my intention to hurt you."

"Then don't. I'm a grown-up woman, old enough to make a conscious choice and live with it."

"You'll hate me when this is all over,.. You deserve better... "

"I won't hate you. And I'm too flawed to be put on a pedestal."

"You promised, Annabelle. Your promised it'd be my way."

"I lied. I would have said yes to anything you asked of me if it meant I could be with you last night."

* * *

The sun was setting as she sat on her bed in her favourite nightdress, brushing her long hair and wondering like every night if tonight would be their last.

He'd told her everything would be over soon, that she'd be free, free to go back to her former life. Only she didn't want to be free, not if it meant being away from him.

Would it be so wrong if she decided not to come back and to ask him to take her with him instead? She wasn't her accomplice after all; he hadn't ask her to do anything for him and as long as he didn't demand she betray her people... they wouldn't be hurting all probability Harry and her team thought her dead already, so what difference would it make if she stayed dead? No one would need to know the truth.

"Come in," she said quietly, feeling her heart flutter in her chest.

Annabelle wondered how long she'd been sitting in the shadows, so absorbed had she been in her thoughts. But he'd come to her, despite everything he'd said earlier, and that was the only thing that mattered. And as the door closed behind him, and they found themselves standing just a breath away in the dark, the world outside stopped spinning once again and it was just them.


	9. Chapter 9

**TITLE:** A Voice in the Dark

**AUTHOR:** Lexie aka lillianschild

**FANDOM: **Spooks/MI5

**RATING:** PG13/mild R (in certain chapters)

**PAIRING:** Lucas/OC

**SUMMARY:** Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. This fic is my own version of Series 7.

**A/N:** I'm going to come back to this one as soon as I'm done working on the next chapter of my Guy/Marian fic "To Be Worthy". By the way, I posted the third chapter a few days ago if you haven't read it yet.

**Disclaimer:** all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

**CHAPTER IX**

"I was so afraid of the dark growing up," she murmured, feeling the unmistakably subtle scent of sandalwood and musk envelope her.

"And now?" he asked quietly, leaning over Annabelle with his elbows propped on either side of her to bring their bodies tantalisingly closer.

"I love hearing your voice in the dark," she confessed as he traced her features with gentle caresses.

"Only my voice, _Ангел мой_?" he whispered teasingly before taking possession of her lips in a languid kiss which eventually turned into a sensual duel as Annabelle's fingers ran through his hair and then journeyed down to his broad shoulders.

As soon as the kiss was broken she felt her long chestnut tresses spill down her back.

"I love you like this," he told her, burying his nose in her hair and pressing a kiss on that very special spot behind her ear which he'd discovered would set her heart racing the way his was with the anticipation of making her his once again.

Annabelle wondered if it was possible for eyes to burn in the dark for she was scorching under his made her wish she could actually see herself reflected in them.

Untangling her fingers from his silky hair, she daringly touched his face and grazed his trademark stubble. She traced the thin-lipped mouth and then moved up to his strong nose. Emboldened by his acquiescence, she continued her exploration towards the bridge of his nose and the arch of his eyebrows only to be stopped when she was about to start the descending journey.

"Things are beautiful if you love them." she whispered, sensing the sudden tension which had seized his body.

"Annabelle..."

"Shh... It's just you and me in the dark. Don't let any ghosts spoil what little time we might have left," she silenced him

"_Где ты был все это время?_" he replied to her tentative caresses.

_Where have you been all this time?_

"_Ожидание,__"_ she sighed as their bodies became one once again.

_Waiting for you._

* * *

"_Ведьма,_" he gasped against her lips, struggling to catch his breath in the afterglow.

"A witch, am I?" she echoed, responding to his kiss with fervour and fighting the tears which had welled up in her eyes.

"_Я не помню, как говорить по-английски, когда я с тобой_," he replied, tightening his arms around her as if he feared she might bolt and never come back.

"Well, then you're lucky that I remember my Russian quite well or else how would we communicate?" she teased him, trying to make light of the emotional mood they were both in.

"_Golubushka..._"

"What is it?" she asked, hearing the hesitation in his voice and dreading the words she knew he'd utter; his langourous lovemaking and desperate clinging to her in the aftermath had felt like goodbye.

"I want you to know that... no matter what happens after tonight... I'll never forget," he said into the darkness as she rested her head on his chest and let him embrace her; the tears she'd held back finally rolling down her cheeks.

* * *

She was deeply asleep when the sound of his mobile phone vibrating on the bedside table intruded into her dreams. By the time he picked up the call she was wide awake. However, she snuggled against him and closed her eyes, making a conscious effort to obliterate the outside world that persevered in piercing the fragile cocoon which enveloped them.

"Yes," he answered quietly, changing the mobile to his other ear and shifting his body gently not to disturb her.

"It's Pearce," she heard the speaker on the other end say before his indistinct voice was muffled.

Harry. Annabelle's heart skipped a beat. Was her mentor the man her captor was listening to so attentively without uttering a word? Was Harry the traitor in their midst? Or was the man who'd made such tender love to her conspiring to condemn her foster father to the same destiny as that of Adam and the man in the castle's?

Once he'd hung up the phone, she remained still, pretending to be asleep, and then pulled away as if irritated in her sleep when he stretched out next to her and put his arm around her waist again.

The delicate stroke of his tender hand against her bare back was a form of bittersweet torture and made maintaining the charade doubly difficult, but her acting skills triumphed in the end, and he settled with his back to hers, respecting the distance she'd put between them.

A long time went by until the sound of his breathing convinced her it was safe to slip away. She trusted his word that no harm would come to her and knew it'd be foolish to risk her liberation. However, she couldn't stop thinking about the phone call and the name she'd overheard. There was no way she'd stand idly by while others got killed or tortured. She'd never be able to live with the guilt. She had to warn someone.

Getting orientated in the dark took her a little while when she found herself in the corridor, having left the door ajar for fear of waking him up with the noise of the latch being engaged. Barefoot she moved towards the staircase and climbed down in search of his study. She recognised the room almost immediately and walked in noiselessly going straight to the windows overlooking the gardens. Leaving through them was impossible with the alarm system installed, so that left only one avenue open; she'd have to make the call from the phone on his desk.

Listening to the dial tone, she hesitated as a feeling of betrayal assaulted her. She had to keep remembering herself who she was and what was at stake if her instincts, blinded by love, had been wrong or if Harry was the man who'd sold out everyone, including her by sharing that grainy picture with the man upstairs.

"Hello," said the voice on the other end.

"It's me, Annabelle," she whispered, blinking away a couple of tears of disbelief at getting through so easily.

"Annabelle? God, where are you?! We thought you were dead."

"I don't know where I am. I only know that it's a house away from London."

"I'm tracking the number to see if I can locate you."

"Is Malcolm helping you?"

"No, he's not on the Grid right now."

"OK. It might be better that way... He's too close to Harry."

"What are you trying to say?"

"I don't know for sure, but I think that Harry might have something to do with everything that's been going on."

"You can't be serious."

"I can't believe it either, but I overheard his name in a phone conversation. There's a good chance he's working with the people who have been holding me prisoner."

"OK. Mum's the word. Where are you calling from?"

"From the house. I managed to slip downstairs and make a call from the study."

"How many are they?"

"Two. At least, I haven't seen or heard anyone else since I arrived."

"Good. Listen, I've got your location. It's going to take me a few hours to get there with back-up, so you'll have to stay put. Leave everything the way you found it, go back upstairs and wait for me."

Although Annabelle knew the plan made sense, she was suddenly filled with panic.

"Annabelle, are you still there?"

"Yes."

"I need you to do as I say. We can't risk losing another agent or letting these bastards have their way. I'll be there in a few hours."

"OK. I'll go back upstairs."

"Good girl. See you soon."

Putting the phone down into its cradle, she rested her forehead on top of her hands, which were still gripping the receiver.

Her mind was a jumble of confusion screaming for a solution other than the one she'd promised to carry out. She knew that as soon as they discovered her missing they'd also disappear. She'd promised she'd return to his bed until her rescuers came and leave everything the way she'd found it for her captors not to discover she'd made the call. And yet, she didn't want him to be harmed in any way.

Her lover was a spy, probably an FSB operative, and she was considering letting him escape by staying hidden away. Her absence would be the warning he needed to be safe and avoid any repercussions his role in the demise of the man at the castle might have.

The memory of the courageous man she'd interviewed on his deathbed steeled her against any decision other than the one her principles demanded of her.

Wiping the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hands, she made her way back to the first floor and the darkness which kept the intruding world away.

**TBC**

**A/N:** _Ангел мой _means _My angel_.


End file.
